


Master of my fate, captain of my soul

by Veruca_Cruz



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Greg Lestrade, BAMF Irene Adler, BAMF John, BAMF Molly Hooper, Beware - strong women, Bisexual John, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Happy Ending, M/M, Murder (more detailed), Plot - so much plot, Post Season 2, Sexual Identity, Starts at a dark place, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture (not very detailed), complete Story line, enough tagging - read the story, non season 3 compliant, post trf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-11-02 06:39:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 36,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10939050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veruca_Cruz/pseuds/Veruca_Cruz
Summary: One man started to gain hope, that his friend might be still alive. Another man, in a dark cell,  lost all hope because he realised that his actions led to the death of his friend.How it should have been. Post TRF. Sherlock has friends, and when enabled, they help him.





	1. Preface - Out of the night that covers me

**Author's Note:**

> There were some things, that bothered me from season 3 on. So I wrote my own fix it.  
> Here is a different view on what happened after TRF. 
> 
> I assumed that Sherlock jumped on November 2011. The main story starts late in January 2012. 
> 
> Some of the content is wishful thinking. Especially after the publication of the Panama Papers I realized that all, that is written here is fiction. 
> 
> The rating is M to be on the safe side. Nothing really steamy will happen till chapter 8/9. But some themes are not nice – heed the tags.  
> And yes, the title refers to Invictus by William Ernest Henley.
> 
> Englisch word order will probably always remain a big mystery to me. Kudos and comments are welcome.

**Switzerland, a hot day in August 1989**

Sherlock was bored. He sat under a tree, trying to read his book and avoiding mosquito bites. He hated Lake Constance. He was forced to accompany his brother and his stupid study buddies on this trip. Mummy insisted. Mycroft objected. Sherlock protested. Mummy won. In the end Mycroft and his posh friends ignored him. They celebrated the end of their studies as an ongoing party since the end of June. Between the drinking and jumping into the lake, they were discussing philosophy, history, politics, conquests, new jobs and future careers. The bellows of the Russian made him jump. The cackling of the ginger one drove him crazy. The switch in languages – English, French, German, Italian – made him dizzy. Sherlock tried to ignore them. But it was useless. He hated his brain. Everything got stuck there. Every blabber about staying in touch, good old times, brothers in arms, friends for life ... Sherlock's head felt heavy and it sunk towards his book. He tried to concentrate on the hum of the mosquitoes. Perhaps he could avoid a headache this way. It didn't help.

 

**Roof of St. Bart's Hospital, November 2011**

The mobile phone dropped from Sherlock's hands to the roof floor. The screen cracked, flittered a final time and then died. But it still recorded for another 15 minutes, till the battery finally ran out. Another 10 minutes later, it was picked up, wrapped into a small plastic bag and hidden away in the depths of a well-worn jacket. The finder kept it close, waiting for the right time to deliver it to the intended recipient. Everything went according to plan so far. But in the end, he wasn't able to fulfil this task. 

 

 **A cold Sunday evening, 2 months later in January 2012**

John was plagued by gruesome nightmares every night. The world was dull, grey and distant. On top of that he had a bad shift at the A & E. And he didn't even care anymore. He felt completely lost, adrift. He tried to keep grounded, to find reasons to do things. But there were none.

A tide was rising, and he hadn't the energy left to swim. He suffocated but the wish for the next breath was fading. It felt like being crushed alive. No escape was in sight, no fight was left in him. Capitulation was the only option available now. He just wanted to fall into the all-encompassing quiet darkness to join his fallen comrades and, most important, his best friend. He failed them all, as doctor and as a friend. He cleaned the flat, cleared out the fridge, took out the trash and waited for Mrs. Hudson to leave for evening mass at church. 

Reverently he opened the door to Sherlock’s bedroom and took everything in a last time, checking if all was in order and indulging in some of his most treasured memories. He went up to his own room and sat at his desk. From the drawer he first took pen and paper and wrote a short letter. After that he picked up his gun, cleaned and loaded it. He moved to his bed and sat on the mattress. Rain splattered on the window pane. In the distance he heard the sounds of the city: cars honking, police sirens blaring - the general susurrus of people minding their businesses. The house itself was deadly silent. 

He rested the barrel of the gun against his lower lip and opened his mouth. While first he was calm, his left hand started shaking with the task. He also raised his right hand to the trigger, trying to steady himself. The shaking got worse. He felt tears on his cheeks. He cried and after endless moments of trying to pull the trigger he vomited onto the carpet. Sobbing and hating himself for being too afraid to pull the trigger, he curled into a small ball on the mattress, bawling for an endless time into the cushion till exhaustion overtook and an uneasy sleep encompassed him. 

The next morning, the alarm on his mobile still set to his shift went off. He was groggy, but thankfully numb. He unloaded his gun and shoved it and the letter into the drawer of the bedside table; out of sight, out of mind. He showered, cleaned up the mess and went to work. Business as usual – the world was still dull, grey and distant.


	2. Black as the Pit from pole to pole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg finds something, that was lost...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting the scene. More players will appear soon.

**Friday evening, one week later**

DI Greg Lestrade stared at photos, files and evidence bags that the forensic team had displayed on the table in a seldom used underground meeting room. The whole material of two separate cases had been put there, to give him a better overview. Two bodies were found yesterday: both victims were male, approximately 20 and 40 years old, and probably homeless. Greg assumed, they were connected and tried to unite the evidence into one case. His higher ups hadn't made the case a high priority. Homeless people weren't their main concern; especially, when other, more pressing cases needed solving. But he still felt the need to at least make the most basic effort here - for humanities sake. 

The younger victim was identified with the help of the missing person’s database: Nick Henley, 19. He had ran from home 3 years ago and his parents had reported him missing then. They had provided photos and distinguishing markers for the search. Now it helped to identify him without any doubt. Greg decided to tell the parents the bad news, when he knew a little bit more about the circumstances of his death. 

The other victim only had an empty wallet on him. No home address or next of kin was to be found and nobody seemed to miss him. Both victims were strangled from behind and were disposed in dumpsters in back alleys. One back alley wasn't even far away from New Scotland Yard. There was no clue regarding the killer or killers, but the method of killing was similar. Both victims were estimated to be dead for three days.

Greg was weary. He slumped into a nearby chair, fingers massaging frustratingly his eyebrows and forehead, trying to ease the tension. During these moments, he longed for help. His thoughts wandered to Sherlock, but instead of feeling exasperation by having to call him and being insulted, he still mourned. More than two months ago, Sherlock jumped from the roof of St. Bart’s Hospital. Greg sighed, because on the heel of grief, there was always a simmering fury. For years he had tried his best to protect Sherlock from boredom by providing him with challenges - ultimately to keep him away from drugs and therefore keeping him alive. But Sherlock got himself dead, because somebody tried to make him into a phoney. 

Suicide - Greg secretly detested people for choosing this final option. Especially now, after newspapers had retracted their accusations and the deeds of Sherlock were praised again. Christmas papers were full of exclusives about Sherlock Holmes. Many of his clients had come forward and vouched for him and his methods. 'I Believe in Sherlock Holmes,' became a popular catch phrase. Eventually serious newspapers had done background searches of Richard Brook, revealed his faked identity and cleared Sherlock’s name. Sherlock was again respected and his genius acknowledged - but that would not bring him back. 

And therefore Greg had no help anymore on the homicides. He was sure, that many new cases could have been solved by now, if Sherlock had been available. Most of them would probably have been bloody obvious to him. Even Greg felt, that he missed something vital. With the current case load he felt like a hamster, always kept busy in a wheel of never ending work, but essentially unimportant. 

He gazed over the items on the table: Clothes, shoes, photos from the alleys and dumpsters, two mobile phones. Both phones were found on the younger victim. Greg stilled and picked up an evidence bag containing one mobile. He knew the model. Sherlock had owned the same. It still riled Greg, that they never recovered Sherlock’s phone after the jump. But in the ruckus caused by it, a lot of evidence got lost and the missing phone was just one of it. They searched the window ledges and even the manhole covers on the ground for Sherlock’s phone, but it was never found. 

Greg inspected the phone further. It had a cracked screen. His gut screamed that the phone was important. Besides the crack and the indenture on the corner, where the crack had originated, the phone seemed well cared for: No scratches on the casing, no dust, no fingerprints. The phone was found wrapped into a small plastic bag. Greg suspected that it had belonged to a third party and not to one of the victims. Forensics had already pulled the data from the phone and stored them on the NSY server for analysis, but nobody had had the time to look through all the data. NSY had too many open cases like burglaries, robberies, kidnappings, drug busts and homicides, that the case of two homeless men was a low priority. In the last two months there was a significant rise in criminal action. Greg refused to connect Sherlock’s suicide with that even if he didn't believe in coincidences. 

The DI checked his watch - dinner time. He should finish for today. It was Friday and he longed for the weekend, like a lot of his colleagues. There were still people in the offices with the current workload – overtime everywhere. But going home didn't appeal to him - his marriage was over. His soon to be ex-wife wanted him out of the flat and the divorce filed as soon as possible. There was no love left anymore and he wouldn't be missed. He already kept more clothes at the yard in his locker than at home anyway. 

He made up his mind to fetch some coffee from the office kitchen. Then he would take a closer look at this case, including a check of the retrieved files from the mobiles.

Back with some coffee and munching a stale biscuit Greg unlocked the computer station that was available in the meeting room. He pulled up the files of the first phone from the server: Contacts, phone protocol, photos, retrieved text messages, etc. He opened the contacts file. Only two entries were listed: JW and Q. The phone protocol showed some other numbers. Greg startled. One number seemed to be familiar: his own number. On a hunch he pulled up his phone and checked the number beside JW: John Watson's number. After scrolling through all his contacts, he matched Mycroft Holmes to Q.

The inspector felt his stomach drop. Only one person came to his mind with this peculiar contact list: Sherlock.

Greg opened the next folder, containing the photos from the phone. The time stamps of the photos spanned over one year. He took a deep breath before opening the oldest. It showed a snapshot of a detail he couldn't recognize. He exhaled slowly. He clicked through the photos: Blurry details, licence plates, foot prints, stone and gravel, scratches of surfaces, mud blotches, grass stains, and so on. Greg had the urge to giggle. He couldn't decide if those photos proved it was Sherlock’s phone or not. But what other photos had he expected on the phone. Holiday pictures?

He clicked faster and faster through the files and almost missed one: A selfie. Sherlock and John were sitting on the couch at Baker Street. John was holding a newspaper to prove the date. Both were grinning into the camera with Sherlock holding the phone to make the shot. Greg knew the photo. Sherlock had sent it to him almost half a year ago to prove, that he was not chasing criminals across England, but staying at home. Greg couldn't even remember, why he had insisted on the photo and which case they had tried to solve. He felt himself grinning and then it came back: Sherlock’s phone. This was the final proof. He exhaled sharply. His stomach was churning. 

Greg sobered and took a sip of his now luke-warm coffee. It didn't help to settle his stomach. The queasy feeling remained. He clicked through the last photos. Three shaky snap shots of people, minding their business in London. Greg startled and zoomed in on the last one. It was a picture of the older victim he currently investigated. He checked the time stamp. How did he end up on Sherlock's phone almost two and a half months ago?

He was hooked now and continued looking through the other files. The text messages confirmed the ownership further: There were some messages from him, but most were from and to John. Sadness overcame Greg after reading those. They spoke of an easy going but deep friendship with lots of dark humour, friendly ribbing and teasing, shopping lists, case information and occasionally outrageous exclamations. Greg knew, he intruded on John's privacy, but he felt compelled, to read them all. The whole NSY including Greg had speculated about the relationship status of John and Sherlock. The jokes and insinuation at their expense sometimes had been very crude and seldom concealed. It seemed, they wronged Sherlock again and denied him something so innocent like true friendship. 

The more Greg read and thought about it, the more wretched he felt. He had enough psychological training as a police man and boss to know how important acceptance and also praise were to every human being. Ridicule and isolation led to despair and depression. Were he and his unit part of Sherlock’s decision to jump? Was Sherlock’s self-esteem really that low despite his show of ego? John had told him once, shortly after Sherlock's jump, that his last eye-to-eye conversation was made in anger. John took it hard, that he called Sherlock a 'machine'. He blamed himself, that his words might have been the final straw. 

Greg was well connected with friends and colleagues and thrived on the daily interactions with them. He found it difficult to imagine a life without them. Despite his current divorce, he could probably name 10 buddies, on which sofa he could crash tonight. Being isolated or lonely never was an issue for him. It was hard for him to imagine what Sherlock must have felt. 

Greg took another deep breath. No reason to dwell on that. Some files were still left. One was an excel file with a calculation that made no sense to him, another a PDF with a laundry invoice in Sherlock's name and two audio files. The first audio file was a recording of a classical violin piece. Greg assumed, judging by the quality of the recording, that Sherlock was the musician. He smiled, as he fondly remembered Christmas over a year ago, where Sherlock had played some pieces on his violin. He had been a very good violinist. And Greg had enjoyed listening. But he had never dared to ask for some of his favourite pieces. He was afraid his requests were too plain and would offend Sherlock. Last Christmas, four weeks ago, was a more subdued affair where Sherlock was dearly missed amidst John, Mrs. Hudson and him. 

Greg saved the recording to his private folder on the server. He had not a lot of Sherlock to remember him by. Greg used to think of himself as Sherlock's friend, but he had to admit, that if he applied this label, he wasn't a good one. Morosely he thought that he was no friend at all because he couldn't stop him from committing suicide.

Greg opened the last audio file and listened. After a few minutes, he knew what the recording was about. His stomach rebelled violently the more he heard. Listening made him sick and he barely made it to the waste-paper basket in the corner. He violently threw up.

The recording replayed the meeting of Sherlock and Moriarty on the roof. They discussed the 'game', how Moriarty engineered the downfall of Sherlock and the consequences if he didn't jump: snipers on him, John and Mrs. Hudson. There was a gun shot and a desperate phone call between John and Sherlock. Then silence, steps and rustling noises. 

Despite some confusion, Greg understood most of the content instantly: Sherlock didn't jump because of low self-esteem or harassment, but to save his friends; including him. Greg forced some steadying breaths trying to settle his stomach. He took a sip of his stone cold coffee to chase away the taste of bile on his tongue. 

After some minutes he stood up and started pacing. He needed to think. A sniper had watched him, was still watching him? Was he under surveillance? But certainly not here, in the underground levels at NSY?

He needed a plan. And being a Friday evening with nobody missing him, he had all the time. With renewed vigour, he started on all the other evidences piled up in front of him. He was missing something, and he would solve the riddle. Weekend be damned.


	3. I thank whatever gods may be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fight against Moriarty starts...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter to further the plot. The boys will appear soon. Don’t be afraid.

Hours later, 3 o'clock on Saturday morning, Greg had a working theory and loads of leads.

First, he needed to disappear in case someone was trailing him. Second, he had to include John to help him. The first was easy, the second, was a little bit trickier. But Greg was confident, that he could solve whatever this was about. 

Another two hours later, he had made even more progress. Silently he returned to his office and used the darkness to close the blinds on his windows. With some equipment from the surveillance department he tracked for bugs there and disabled them. 

He also checked his clothes. He actually found bugs in his belt, shoes and mobile. He discarded the belt and shoes in the rubbish bin in the kitchen. In the locker room he borrowed some shoes from a new colleague and donned a baseball cap. He 'lost' his mobile in one of the storage rooms and took a non-descriptive one from the provisions chamber, just to get rid of possible surveillance. 

He tucked his gun inside his jacket, ready to fight if someone attacked him. Way too early for a Saturday morning, a weary but certain Greg left NSY through the underground parking deck. He used all his knowledge of getting out of the building without being seen on public surveillance and tried to keep cover above him. He walked for probably 15 minutes, till a black car pulled up beside him. The rear door opened. 

"Inspector Lestrade, long time no see. Please join me," the familiar upper class voice demanded. Greg felt deflated. All the care was for nothing. If Mycroft could find him, Moriarty and a sniper could, too. 

Greg hesitated, but there was no point to not follow the invitation. He slid into the backseat of the car. In front of him sat Mycroft. They met three times before: Once, when he found Sherlock on the streets after an OD, a second time in an official capacity during a peculiar case and the last time at Sherlock's funeral. Additionally they had talked over the phone sometimes, always about issues regarding Sherlock. 

Greg tried to keep calm. Currently he didn't know, what was going on. He hoped Mycroft was on his side and would help him.

"May I congratulate you, Detective Inspector? You successfully disappeared from the grid. And this is the reason, why we are now able to meet,” Mycroft smiled. "We have a lot to discuss."

Greg took a deep breath and relaxed a little. “How were you able to find me?”

“I have my ways,” said Mycroft. Greg looked at him disapprovingly, “and a trustworthy person that watched over the only unobserved entrance to NSY,” Mycroft added. 

Greg should have known that he wasn't the only one, who knew the weak points in the surveillance of the NSY headquarters. He had a lot of questions running around in his head but he didn't know where to start. So he kept silent and rolled his eyes. He was sleep deprived. And with Mycroft here he knew for certain that something epic was going on. 

Mycroft gave the driver a short nod and the car started to accelerate. 

„Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft began, "some weeks ago we hacked into some rogue surveillance transmission, which was clearly put on you. Every time, when you were above ground, we were able to listen in on you. I am sorry, about the divorce, by the way.” Greg grimaced at that comment. 

“Anyway,” Mycroft continued. “We knew the surveillance belonged to Moriarty's sources. Earlier we realised, that the bugs started to fail around you, so we took our chance to pick you up. It seems you no longer have any transmitters on you. With all the moles, it was never safe to approach you. Therefore I am quite pleased, that you solved that problem yourself. I will brief you on what I know and I harbour the hope that you will cooperate with me."

Greg looked sceptical. "As far as I know, a sniper wants my head. Other ones seem to be on John Watson's and Mrs. Hudson’s heels. I don't know if I can be much of a help. What is going on?" 

"You are partly correct in your assessment. But your sniper is dead. It's the man, you are currently investigating. We know about the other two but I don't have the resources at the moment to take care of them. That is the reason, why I need your help.”

Greg nodded. 

Mycroft took a deep breath. "I know that you listened to the recording of Sherlock and Moriarty on the roof of St. Bart’s. I have seen you pull the files from the server. And therefore you are aware of the three snipers. But you don't know about the vast network behind that. Moriarty installed a web with heads in five major European cities. They are specialized on all kinds of crime: kidnapping, blackmail, human trafficking, money laundry, you name it. The government officials that are not part of it are aware of the network. But some of Moriarty's men hold key positions and therefore make us impotent against their doings, until now. You managed to get off the grid. The sniper put on you died an unfortunate death, and he wasn't replaced. Perhaps the news doesn’t travel that fast, or Moriarty got sloppy. Good for us: now, we can get you to ask the right questions from official sides. I know you are well connected. With backup from unofficial units and my connections, we stand a chance against Moriarty’s infiltration. With your help, we could take the pressure from the higher ups and let the broad base of NSY do its job: strength in numbers. You already did the first step, but you won't come far without my help. My brother held you in high regard. And I hope you will support me."

Lestrade felt the beginning of a head ache. He knew the moment, when he picked up Sherlock’s mobile, that something was going on. But he would never have believed in a scheme that big. He sunk into the seat, thoughts running around his head. In the end, he stared at Mycroft and said: "Well, it seems, I am already in. So let's do this."

Mycroft smiled tight-lipped and started to explain his plan. 

**At the same time - somewhere in the Beskid mountains**

He had done it – the final piece to a complete overview of the network: People, places, transactions, documents. But in the end he got sloppy and made mistakes. He hadn't slept for three days and eaten almost nothing. His body longed for sleep, for food. But he had to stay hidden; he had transmitted all his information to his contact in Switzerland. He would take the necessary final steps to stop Moriarty's organisation. 

His pursuers traced his mobile as soon as they knew someone was stealing information. But the mobile was essential in transmitting his data. He could not dispose of it. When they finally hunted him down, they were quite surprised to realise, who the culprit was: Sherlock Holmes, alive.


	4. For my unconquerable soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Curtain rises: Enter John...

John felt bone deep tired. It was Saturday late in the morning, more than two months after Sherlock’s death. The grief didn't seem to lessen, when he remembered that day. He worked as much as he could, for work kept his morbid thoughts at bay. He just came back from a night shift at the A&E and he hoped, he could fall into a dreamless sleep till afternoon. He didn't want to feel. He just needed rest.

Last weekend, he had hit an all-time low, wanting to end everything. He didn't want to think about that either. He hadn't stopped working since then, except for short naps or awful snacks. The inflow of patients on the A & E was at an all-time high, and every available doctor was pulled in. It somehow felt like war again. Therefore he was exhausted, emotionally and physically drained. On the other hand, the additional money was welcome. Just tedious locum work would not help to cover the rent on the flat long-term. But his money running out was a problem for another time. 

John decided on a cup of tea before crawling into bed. He just put the kettle on, when his phone chimed, indicating a text message. 

‘Need your help with an old case. Please stop by at NSY ASAP, Greg’ 

John stilled. Cases were connected to Sherlock, and he didn’t know if he was up to it. But on the other hand, he always wanted to set Sherlock legacy straight, and if he could contribute to that, he would go to NSY. He answered that he would stop by within the next hour. Sleep was not so important after all. The nightmares could wait. 

John arrived in time at Greg's office. He felt nervous and jumpy. Despite being Saturday, some people were still working at the Yard. Greg saw him and hurried through the door to join him on the corridor, holding a folder in his hand. With a gesture he indicated to keep quiet. John threw him a puzzled glance but complied. Greg ushered him to a staircase dragging him along downstairs. 

They arrived at a meeting room. There was a bag and a metal box with a lid on the table. John realized how Greg checked the empty corridor before closing the door. He shoved John into a chair. The folder was thrust at him and Greg mentioned for John to open it.

John was a little bit confused, but he complied. A note was taped inside the folder

‘John, you are bugged. Don't talk. Keep quiet.  
1\. Take off your clothes and put them all (!) in the box including shoes, watch, underwear, belt and mobile.  
2\. Dress in the clothes from the bag.  
3\. Do this as fast and as quiet as possible. When finished, tab me on the back and follow me.  
Trust me, please.’

Greg looked into eyes, seeking confirmation of his written commands. John raised a questioning eyebrow. After some moments he nodded and put the folder on the table. Greg turned his back toward John giving him some privacy. 

John undressed quickly and silently, putting his discarded clothes into the box on the table. After being naked, he pulled the clothes from the bag: Simple cotton pants, vest, a hoodie jacket, jeans, belt, socks and trainers. The clothes were slightly to loose, but the shoes fit perfectly. 

He put the lid on the box and got the attention of Greg. Greg threw a glance at him, nodded and went through the door. John followed him through corridors of NSY into areas, where he never went before. It seemed they were descending deeper into the building. Greg gestured him into a small storage room and switched the light on. 

He pulled a device from the shelf, turned it on and roamed the end of a stick over John. After being turned around and his back being searched the same way, Greg grunted satisfied. 

“You are clear. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“What is this about?” John asked puzzled. 

Greg looked at him with tired eyes. „This is about way more, than you can imagine. I am still scratching at the surface. What I will tell you now, will not be easy to stomach. But it will be all I know so far. Are you willing to listen?”

“Do I have a choice?” John asked grimly. 

“Not really. This is about you, too. First: Listen to this. But I warn you. It’s horrible.”

John nodded, and Greg fished out a new mobile phone. 

John knew instantly, that the phone wasn’t Greg’s original one. “It’s from Mycroft: High end technology, special encryption software, no possibility to be spied on, doesn’t work on regular frequencies,” Greg explained. “But that’s not important now. Here, listen. But I think, you should sit down first.” 

He steered John to a small stool on the corner. After that he pressed play. The conversation of Sherlock and Moriarty started.

While listening, John’s face shifted from confusion, to disbelief and distress. When the recording turned to the phone conversation between Sherlock and John, Greg stopped the recording. John had gotten deathly pale. 

“Is this real?” John asked after a few moments. “Did he -,” John started, but he needed to take a calming breath. “Did he jump because he had been forced to do it? Us or him?”

John felt light-headed. Suddenly the jump made sense. The nagging feeling of wrongness vanished. He wasn’t to blame. Sherlock was made to jump. He had solid reasons. Even if John would have gladly switched places with him, the guilt that weighted him down lifted. At the same time gratitude and disbelieve for the sacrifice of his friend for him took its place. 

Greg nodded. ”It is genuine. Mycroft confirmed it, too. They knew, Moriarty planned something, but they never thought he would be this crazy. And it doesn’t stop here. Sherlock’s jump was just a start signal for many operations around Europe. Moriarty is orchestrating everything.”

“And what is this all about? Why the secrecy? Why bugs?”

“I don’t really know. I had a sniper following me till some days ago. He was found murdered in an alley. I was bugged. Mycroft assumed, that you and Mrs. Hudson are, too. My divorce provided me with a complete cut to my routines and clothes. Probably there is still some surveillance on my ex, but that is no longer important. And we got rid of your bugs and surveillance as long as you don’t return to Baker Street. But snipers could still be waiting out there for you and Mrs. Hudson. We have to get you off the grid, get confirmation if you are still shadowed and get you and Mrs. Hudson to safety. The thing is: You have to do that on your own. I am trying to support Mycroft with other operations. I can provide you with a gun, a secure mobile, some cash and a bolt hole. You need to find the people who are out to get you and Mrs. Hudson. When you have dealt with them and want to help, report back to me. We can go from there. Are you game?”

John looked grim. He couldn't believe it. He was still in the midst of Moriarty's game. Nothing was solved by Sherlock's death. “This doesn’t sound official at all.”

“It isn’t. We don’t know who we can trust. Therefore your help would be very much appreciated. We do this step by step. We keep under the radar. I will look the other way, on what you do. But I know you will be fine on your own.”

John nodded. “Okay. I am in - for Sherlock.”

Greg nodded. „Perfect.”

He turned to one of the shelves in the room and pulled out a bag. “Here is everything you need. The next door down the corridor leads to the underground car park and is under no surveillance. From there, avoid public spaces. When you have dealt with your and Mrs Hudson’s shadows and Mrs Hudson is safe, send a short text to the number saved under L. Unlock the mobile with 7437. You will find more information there. Don't use the phone for checking your e-Mail or searches that could connect it to you. Don't call anyone on it. Especially don’t call me, because I won’t be able to talk. I won’t be able to come to your help. I don’t really want to know, what you are doing. You are on your own. Good luck.”

With that, Greg opened the door and vanished along the corridor. John took a deep breath, and looked into the bag. He pulled out the mobile, a non-descriptive key, and some bills and pocketed everything in his jeans. He loaded the gun and tucked it into the waist band at the back of the jeans. The few spare bullets went into the pockets as well. He pulled up the cap of the hoodie and left NSY. 

 

**At the same time - somewhere in the Beskid mountains**

The hours after his capture were horrible. He was dragged into an underground chamber of an old castle. They ripped away his clothes, forced him to his knees, tied him up, beaten him, taunted him. But nothing was done to cause serious damage. They just wanted to inflict pain. It was clear to Sherlock that they waited, were ordered to keep him alive. After some time, a tall, vaguely familiar man appeared. Sherlock cursed his brain for being so sluggish. 

“Now I finally meet the famous Sherlock Holmes in person,” he snarled. “My boss sends his regards. He suspected that you were still alive. Nice trick though. We detracted the gunmen first. But as soon as Jim doubted your demise, he put them back on track. Thanks for giving us proof.” 

Sherlock looked up disbelieving. Up to now, Sherlock assumed that Moriarty had really killed himself on the roof top; another deception in this sick game.

The man cackled. “He just wants to tell you, that he will gladly burn the heart out of you, now. Your friends are history.” 

With that, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and hit speed dial. He turned around and gave some commands in Czech to his captors. While the man retreated down the corridor, Sherlock could hear, how he ordered the death of his friends. 

“Hi Sebastian, please take care of your charges, and inform your buddy Frank, too…,” the voice died away, as his captor left the building.

Sherlock sagged into his bonds. He lost. He thought, he was clever, but now it was over. He was a complete failure; Moriarty still alive, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and John soon to be dead. All for nothing; he failed them. He failed John. He struggled one last time in vain against his bonds. Tears that had refused to fall earlier started to silently stream down his cheeks.


	5. In the fell clutch of circumstance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John joins the action...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no beta, all mistakes are mine. Sorry.

John should have felt nervous or afraid. But he just felt calm and focussed. He had a purpose. Somehow everything started to make sense. Sherlock did not commit suicide, it was murder. If it had been possible, he would have traded his life for Sherlock's. He had been willing to do so at the pool with Moriarty a year ago. And now it seemed Sherlock had done the same for him, and for his friends. He couldn’t be angry any more at Sherlock for abandoning him. Now he was furious at Moriarty for forcing Sherlock into committing suicide. The intense emotion felt good. He would use it to revenge his best friend. Even if it was the last thing, he would do. 

First he needed to stay low key. His time with Sherlock taught him, that nobody watches common people. His new clothes were common enough and cheap. He sought a quiet spot in an alley behind some dumpsters. He needed an overview of the current situation and a plan. He knew about military stealth operations. Now he had to think like a soldier again. 

He unlocked his new phone and scrolled through the content. One number was saved under L – Lestrade obviously. A memo gave the address of his bolt hole. There was also a downloaded map of London with highlighted areas of heavy surveillance - probably a courtesy of Mycroft. If he avoided the tourist attractions and public buildings especially banks, he could keep off the radar. So back alleys and a baseball cap would be good options. If this goes on longer, he decided to grow a beard, just to change his appearances more. 

Slowly a plan formed in his head. 

John used the map to find the way back to Baker Street through back alleys. He knew of a flat at 218c Baker Street that suspiciously stayed empty for some time. Sherlock commented once on it, while he was still alive. He wanted to take a look, if it was really empty. If so, he would start his operations there. Then he could observe Baker Street and any suspicious dealings. 

As soon as he reached the intended back alley, he climbed up the fire ladder with the help of some empty crates. He broke into the flat with less trouble than imagined. The window on the fire escape was only drawn, not locked. 

He opened it with caution and slipped inside. He definitely wasn’t the first visitor. The flat was occupied. There were beer bottles and wrappers from sandwiches lying around. Somebody camped here. John pulled out his gun. It was a small apartment with two windows, a tiny kitchenette and an adjacent bathroom. They were equipped with basic food and cleaning supplies. He made sure nobody was hiding. A sleeping bag was in the corner and an old table was in front of the other window. A sniper rifle was mounted above it. I was camouflage painted, and the shoulder stock was adorned with an inlay of a lion. Despite having been a soldier and having a fairly broad knowledge in guns, John didn't recognise the weapon. A box with ammunition was placed beside the rifle. The bullets were engraved with the initials S. M.

The curtains on the window were almost completely drawn, only a small gap was open for the rifle and the sniper to peek out. John stepped to the window. There was a perfect line of sight to 221 b Baker Street into his living room and Mrs. Hudson's small kitchen downstairs. 

Below the table was an opened trunk for the rifle. A box with gun maintenance supplies and a Taser were stowed there, too. 

John knew he was lucky. On the first try, he stumbled upon the bolt hole of his or Mrs. Hudson’s sniper. Soldiers are soldiers – and they were trained alike. 'Secure, move, shoot...' Some of the old lectures came back: Secure the location, move to a position of advantage, shoot when opportunity arises. John decided to stay and settled into the small bathroom. From there he could see the entry door and the two windows, but was hidden in the shadows. He cradled his gun, watched and waited for this opportunity. 

Slowly the adrenaline from the day vanished from his blood stream. He fought to stay awake. After 5 hours of waiting, the daylight was dimming and enveloping the apartment into twilight. He startled when he heard a distant ringing of a mobile. Some seconds later, someone inserted a key into the door lock and turned it. John was wide awake again. The door opened.

A tall man stepped in, phone in hand. “Yes, understood. I will get to it immediately.” He sounded eager. He shed his black leather jacket and threw it on the kitchen counter. 

“Don’t worry. I will… Yes, I will disappear as soon as this is finished. Finally time for a vacation, two months of surveillance is a bitch. … I could have made a fortune with other assignments, you owe me…. Yeah, Bye.” With that he cancelled the phone call and stepped to the window, checking the view.

John slowly raised the gun and stepped out of the bathroom. “On your knees, hands above the head,” he said menacingly.

The man raised his hands and took a step back. With that move he whirled around and jumped at John. Out of reflex, John fired the gun. The bullet grazed his attacker on the neck and hit the window frame. The sniper hissed in pain, but the momentum of the jump propelled him further to John. He crashed into him and pushed John to the ground. One hand clenched and tightened around John’s throat.

“There you are”, the man wheezed. Blood was pouring out of the neck wound. Both men were fighting for control, rolling on the ground, kicking and punching if possible. The sniper was trying to tighten his hold around John's neck. John fought for breath. John realized, that the sniper had extensive close combat training and he couldn't gain the upper hand. He tasted blood on his tongue and felt bruises, where the snipers fist had connected on his rips and stomach. John's vision started to narrow. He heard this blood rushing in his ears. He focussed on the neck wound of the sniper. Blood poured out of it at a disturbing rate. The bullet had hit an artery. John realized he had to play for time.

John didn’t struggle to move from his position any more. He just applied pressure to the man’s wrist, to be able to keep breathing shallowly. The sniper still used his other hand to punch John into the face or stomach. More blood came pouring out of the wound and trickled onto John and his hoodie. The sniper was losing strength by the second. The eyes, moments ago still clear got unfocussed and the grip loosened finally. John rolled the sniper beneath him. As soon, as he straddled him, he could feel him going limp, eyes staring unfocussed ahead. A last breath escaped his lungs. John fumbled for the pulse on the neck. I was fading away. 

John stayed like that for some minutes until he was certain that the sniper was dead. He felt calmness settling over him, like all the times in the battlefield, where death was a frequent companion. There was no guilt for the murder: It was self-defence and revenge for his friend. Some of the self-loathing, that was a constant companion for the last few weeks poured out of him. It would not bring Sherlock back, but it assuaged the constant helplessness and he felt closer to Sherlock again. 

John closed the man's eyes and got up to a kneeling position at his side, catching his breath. He struggled to his feet and went to the sink in the kitchen. He spit out some blood, rinsed his mouth and washed his hands. His whole body ached. He might get some nasty bruises, but he didn't think anything was broken. He felt to old for this shit. He returned to the dead sniper and padded his frame for anything valuable. There was the phone, a set of keys, a wallet and some receipts.

John looked at the phone. On the screen he could see a distinctive smearing. He turned it into the remaining light. It revealed a sliding pattern in form of an inverted L. That meant only two ways to unlock. Right and up or down and left. John tried his luck: right and up. The screen unlocked. 

He rifled through the content. The phone didn't have additional security. He saw some photos of Mrs. Hudson and him. The landscapes and pictures of children were not relevant at the moment. He would look at them at a later date. The mails on the phone were signed with S. Moran. The e-mails were few, but they proved that the sniper was hired to shadow him and at a later date to shadow Mrs. Hudson, too. One sniper had been retracted to do business in Eastern Europe. He put the phone on flight mode, to avoid detection. It had to stay on and powered, otherwise he would need to unlock the SIM-Card with a code. Maybe he would need the phone later. 

Meanwhile, the room was bathed into darkness. John switched on the flash light of his own mobile. 

He dismounted the rifle from the table, and packed everything that could be of value into the trunk. With a soft napkin from the gun maintenance kit he wiped down all surfaces he had touched. With some bleach he found in the bathroom he cleaned the sink of his blood. His hoodie was blood soaked, but leaving it behind was no option because of the cold weather and his DNA. He picked up the leather jacket and put it on. It was sufficient to cover the blood stains. He looked at the corpse. There was probably some of his DNA on the sniper's hands. He took the bottle of bleach and poured it over the hands and the corpse for good measure. He remembered all the times, how Sherlock had thrown a fit, when killers used bleach to cover their tracks: crude, but effective. 

He locked the door from the inside, wiped it too, took the case with his new possessions and climbed out of the window he came in. With a final wipe down of surfaces there, he climbed down the fire ladder. 

In the alley, he chose the shortest and most convert way to his bolt hole. He felt quite good, that he was able to get rid of his problem so fast. The next step would be, to get Mrs Hudson to safety. He couldn’t let her stay at Baker Street like a sitting duck. He knew just the way, how to do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudos are appreciated.


	6. I have not winced nor cried aloud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets things done... But is it too late?

John already knew, where his bolt hole was located. Sherlock's cases had taken them all over London. He once had to look up tattoo studios for a case. He still remembered the alley, because he was quite certain, that a studio in such a street couldn’t really make business and needed to close soon. He was wrong. The tattoo studio was still there. Probably it wasn’t just a tattoo shop – or it was just really good and lived on its reputation alone.

When he arrived at the alley, he looked for the number. He found a small back door that was so unremarkable that even now he almost overlooked it. It opened to a spiral stair case and led up to a small room. Everything there was functional: a bed, a dresser, a sink, a toilet and a microwave – no real kitchen, no bathroom. Not luxurious, but sufficient. He found some basic toiletries and some clean clothes in the drawers of the dresser. He had lived under worse conditions. He stowed the trunk with the rifle under the bed. He had a lot to do. 

After changing his hoodie and cleaning away the blood, which had dried on his skin and needed to be scrubbed away, he went out again. First he got a baseball cap at a street vendor. Usually he ignored the illegal sellers, but now they were heaven sent. The newly acquired leather jacket from the sniper protected him from the cold weather and the light drizzle. Additionally he bought some simple clothing for women. The next step was a small convenience store for food, paper and a pen. The small shop was run by a Pakistan immigrant and was just right for his needs. Next, he needed internet access. 

He found a small internet cafe, run by a bored Chinese woman, and bought an access for half an hour. The new cap shielded his face ideally from the surveillance cameras. 

He needed to call in a favour. He once saved the life of Matthew Tennant. Matt had been his superior on his first tour to Afghanistan. During his first assignment, Matt had made a mistake, which led his squad into danger. He had been willing to sacrifice his life, so that his team could escape. John, still young and eager, had fought at his side, despite clear orders, and had saved the situation and all of his comrades’ lives. At the beginning, Matt had been furious with him, later on, Matt became thankful. In the end, he promised to repay him. They finished their first tour together, but they only met once later on for a beer, despite both being Londoners. John would never have thought he would need a favour. But now was the time. 

There was a website for veterans on the internet, where he still checked in from time to time to keep in contact with his old comrades: he knew Matt to be active there. John's current account was no use. If he was shadowed by Moriarty’s men, then they would know about that account. So John needed to create a new one. For that, he also needed a new e-mail account. From now on, he would use the name William Miller for his internet transactions. Common names were brilliant in internet searches, if you don’t want to be found. 

After tedious 20 minutes of registration processes, he wrote to Matthew. His nick name ‘Three Continents Watson’ was also no use here. Again any surveillance on him would know about that, but when he had served with Matt he used to have another, lesser known alias. 

‘Dear Matt, 

I need to call in my favour.  
Meeting point: In front of the pub we once met.  
Time: Sunday, 8 pm, 

Confirmation not necessary, I count on you.

The Rookie Doc’

 

He hoped that Matt was still well organized, checking his mails daily. He seemed to be very active on the platform. Therefore he was confident. Hopefully he would also remember the pub. But John had no other idea, how to keep the meeting point vague enough without attracting nutcases. 

After all that, John still had some minutes left from his internet time. So he checked the news, while munching his sandwich: Nothing of interest – only the always there celebrity gossip. Currently an Arab prince was in London and doing business here. His exaggregated lifestyle gained some press coverage. But for everything that happened to John in the last 24 hours, the world out there seemed to be calm. 

He finished up, took his shopping bags and went back to his bolt hole, always taking care to stay in the shadows. The only thing left to do was writing a letter. After that, he felt beat. But now he could finally get some rest. There was nothing to do till tomorrow evening. After some perfunctory ablutions he fell into a light, but restful sleep. He could finally be helpful again. No nightmares kept him awake. He dreamt of cosy nights in Baker Street with take-away, violin music and a vivacious detective. 

John spent his Sunday with a lot of tedious tasks. First he cleaned all of the weapons and familiarized himself with them: the gun, the sniper rifle and the Taser. The gun he got from Greg was the same as the illegal firearm he had at home: a SIG Sauer. He cleand it and reloaded the missing bullet. John always felt confident using this model. 

The rifle however was custom made. After reassembling he tried some aiming, unfortunately some real shooting would not be possible now. Despite not having been trained as a sniper, he was confident, that if necessary, he could also operate it. He was fascinated by the skill level of the snipers. John's aim wasn't bad, and if he really had wanted he could have trained as a sniper. But he had always seen himself in the medical corps. During his days in the army, when most of the days consisted of waiting, he had sometimes used a sniper rifle on a shooting ranges for fun. A mate of him instructed him sometimes, because it seemed he was a natural talent. And in some way, the concentration on the target relaxed him more than any other sport. 

The Taser however was new to him. He heard about them, but never used one. The shock might be deadly to someone old or with a heart condition, but John had to admit, that it was quite convenient and a good solution if you didn’t want to kill someone. John was certain, that in case of the previous owner the 'not killing' meant 'keeping alive' for interrogation. 

After that, John took his time to look through the sniper’s phone. There was almost nothing stored except the few photos he already found and some mails. He was quite certain, that the name of the Sniper was Sebastian Moran, because one E-Mail was sent to him with that name. It would also fit the engraved initials on the bullets. The name seemed to be familiar, but John couldn’t place it. The e-Mails ordered Sebastion to keep an eye on John and Mrs. Hudson, and were signed by someone named Harry. John took his time to open every app and check their history. He jotted down two ingoing phone numbers in the phone protocol. The only other thing he could find was a downloaded map of the Polish-Czechs Border. 

The wallet was also disappointingly empty. It only contained money, but of that a lot: almost 1.000 pounds. John added the cash to his own funds. When he was finished with all his tasks, he made a short trip to a small corner store for some food. After that, he went over his plan again. 

If everything was going like usual Mrs. Hudson would attend evening mass at St. Mary and he would be able to give her a message. There were no snipers anymore, which were confirmed by the Mail he found, but she could still be bugged, like Greg and John had been. 

Around six, the sun was already gone, he started to get ready. He packed a small bag and left for church. When he arrived, he was glad that the area was still deserted, but the church was open. He entered and went into one of the confessional boxes. He opened the cabin and dropped the bag inside. Then he left the church again and waited in a spot, where he could observe the entrance. 

Five minutes to the start of mass, Mrs Hudson dutifully appeared. He observed her from the shadows. As he suspected, she met up with two friends, more interested in the social event than praying. They chatted for a few minutes. John needed to get the letter to her without much commotion. He checked the crowd and the street once again. It seemed nobody tailed her. That was good. There was the risk that the old sniper had already been found and replaced. But John counted on the paranoia of killers: the sniper would not want to leave a trace, avoid regular calls and disguise his locations. He wouldn’t be missed yet. If he was lucky, the sniper wouldn’t even be missed in the long run. He had talked about a vacation. At the moment nobody would find the dead sniper by chance. The apartment had been empty for over a year now with nobody taking care of it. Only when the corpse started to smell then someone in the building would start an investigation. 

John calmed himself. He still had time. If he and Mrs Hudson disappeared tonight they might be thought dead. And nobody would think that the sniper hadn’t fulfilled his assignment. 

He pulled his cap deep into his face, and raised the hoodie over his head too. Furthermore he buried his face into the jacket. Nobody could see his face by accident. He followed Mrs Hudson into the church. She trailed a little bit behind her friends, checking her handbag for her glasses. John saw his chance. He sped up and bumped into her. He shoved the letter into her handbag. 

First, Mrs Hudson looked confused, but John put a steadying hand on her upper arm. She got a short glimpse at his face. John shook his head slightly to indicate, she should keep silent. Then he moved on to some seats on the left.

Mrs Hudson looked at the letter sticking slightly out of her bag. She hurried into a seating bench behind her friends at the right side. Thankfully the mass started, so the whole group had to settle into the seats. Her friends cast her some puzzled looks, but turned toward the priest soon enough. 

Martha Hudson took a praying book and opened it. Then she took out the letter and hid it in the book while reading it. 

‘Dear Mrs Hudson, we are not safe. Somebody wants us dead. Please trust me, and follow my instructions: After mass, go into the confessional box. Get rid of all your clothes and dress in the clothes provided there. Do this as quite as possible. You are most certainly bugged. Leave everything in the box. Afterwards, meet me outside of the church. I will explain everything. Please trust me, John.’

Martha was shocked. But on the other hand, she had regularly dealt with Sherlock and his clients. This was not so absurd. She waited through mass and went through the motions. Then she bid good bye to her friends. John heard her say, that she wanted to pray a little bit for Sherlock. He had to congratulate her on that. It seemed a reasonable excuse to get rid of them, even if someone was listening in on her. John left the church with the last churchgoers. 

After 10 minutes the church was quiet. There was still light in the registry, but probably the priest was just organizing some things. Mrs. Hudson silently went to the confessional boxes, peeked inside and saw a bag. She slid in, closed the wooden door and did as instructed. The darkness wasn’t really helping, but she found everything she needed. The clothes were not her style: striped trousers, a linen blouse, a thick woollen cardigan, a scarf and sensible leather shoes. Everything was in muted grey and brow colours. But in matters like these she couldn’t be fussy. She had some crazier adventures with her ex-husband Frank. 

She packed her discarded clothes into the bag, including her beloved handbag, and hoped that an honest person would find them eventually and take them to a lost-property office or the sacristan.

She peeked outside, and when everything was clear slipped out of the cabin and left the church. She found John immediately. He mustered her from head to toe. It seemed she passed his examination. After that, John gave her a smile and short hug. 

“Mrs Hudson. Thank god. I am sorry for that, but I don’t know any other way.” He began. 

“Don’t worry John. Tell me, what is this about? It is almost, like my late husband is back. Are you in trouble?”

“This way, Mrs Hudson,” he indicated and steered her away. While he explained what happened so far - the recording, the coercion, Greg’s help, the sniper - Mrs Hudson took everything surprisingly well. 

They reached Crawford Street. John could make out the still familiar form of Matt in front of the Three Kings Pub. He waved a short hello and indicated that he should come along. After a few more steps, he ushered everyone into a small alley. 

Matt, who kept silent so far, spoke up. “Johnny, what is this all about? You are in trouble?”

“Matt, first: It is nice to see you. Second: yep, I am in trouble. Third: This is Mrs. Hudson,” Matt and Mrs. Hudson shook hands. 

“Someone wants us dead,” John continued. “I need you to take care of her, till I’ll sort out this mess. Can I count on you?”

Matt took a deep breath. “John, I owe you, of course. Anything I need to know?”

“Do you have a place outside of London? That would be best. The less you are seen on surveillance, the better. And Mrs. Hudson doesn’t have any spare clothing. You need to go shopping. I can provide you with some money. And if you still have a gun: keep it with you,” John ordered. 

Matt stared at him seriously. “You don’t do things half-way.” 

“No. But you know me, trouble finds me. Mrs Hudson can fill you in. It is a long story. Just keep her safe.” John held a small bundle of bills towards Matt. 

“Don't worry John. I know the perfect place. And keep your money. If you need to contact me, use the same way again over the internet.” 

John just shrugged and stuffed the bills into the Mrs Hudson cardigan. She looked slightly exasperated. She had kept silent so far. “Don’t you need that more?” she asked. 

“No, I still have some left,” John answered. Mrs Hudson swatted his hands away and stowed the bills into her pockets. 

“Anyway,” John continued, “I don’t know how long this will take. Let’s use a code. Only trust someone, who uses – “ John thought for a second,” – ’Skyfall’ as code word, okay?” Matt nodded. 

John then said his goodbyes to Matt and Mrs Hudson and they parted. 

After a few steps, Mrs Hudson turned around. “John,” she spoke up. 

John paused and turned towards her. 

“I have a thought,” Mrs Hudson continued. “Does all that mean Sherlock is still alive? If they kept the snipers around, then we must be useful in a way to them.”

John’s eyes widened. He hadn’t thought about that. It sounded reasonable, in fact it was the only thing that made sense. Why put a Sniper on them, if Sherlock was dead? There was no logic in that. But on the other hand, if Sherlock was alive, why were they still alive? Could there be more to it? Hope bloomed in John’s chest. 

“I don’t know. But I will investigate,” he promised. With that he waved goodbye to Matt and Mrs. Hudson and returned to his bolt hole. Now he was free to fight along Lestrade against Moriaty. And perhaps find an answer to the now niggling question: Could Sherlock still be alive?

**Somewhere in the Beskid Mountains**

While one man started to assume, that his friend might not be dead, another man, in a dark cell, bound for 30 hours without food or water had lost all hope. His most desperate wish was to turn back time. He wanted to have again the opportunity to jump, but for real this time. This way the order to kill his friends would never be spoken, and they could still be alive. 

Sherlock had retreated into his mind palace. Exhaustion and pain made it a desolate place. But the good times were still there. He remembered a time, when Lestrade was taking care of him after taking drugs, baiting him with cases to keep him occupied. There was Mrs Hudson giving him a place to stay and a first feeling of belonging. And then there was John giving him companionship, friendship, praise. He dove further into his memories. He replayed the cases with John, the quite evenings with take-a-way and how John patched him up. The memories were bittersweet. He would trade his life again and again; to get that back, or at least to so see them all safe. 

Sherlock indulged in the memories how he and John became closer over time, from formal handshakes to a pad on the shoulder, and one time a hug from John after a gruesome case with a happy end. Sherlock had no delusions about himself. He knew that he was not easy to live with; his only redeeming quality was his intellect. And he knew that John only saw him as a friend and was never attracted to him. He only had himself to blame, if John thought of him as a 'machine'. Hie riled John up on purpose, to chase him away. But currently when Sherlock felt his strength waning, he couldn’t stay aloof anymore. He didn't want to be alone. He was afraid. He imagined nothing elaborate, just a scene of being in bed with John cuddling closer to him and not being rejected, enveloped in a warm and secure space, resting.

After an indeterminable amount of time the tall man came back. Sherlock’s bonds were released and he was dragged by two thugs into a small cell. He didn't struggle anymore. Moriarty's network was going to fall, with or without him. And his friends were dead, because of him. There was nothing left for him. 

“The last station for you: Happy dying, join your friends. And just that you know: you are not even worth one of my bullets, you freak,” the tall man whispered into his ear. Sherlock was dropped to the ground and a boot kicked firmly into his stomach. Sherlock wretched some blood and vomit onto the ground. There wasn’t much, because his stomach was empty. He didn't care anymore. It wasn't important. He just collapsed to the ground, trying to get lost in the images in his head. It was peaceful and warm there. The door to his cell was shut and bolted.

The cold of the stone tiles crept into his aching bones, dulling the pain. His mouth was parched and tasted vile. Time was slipping by unheeded. There were no shadows to help him calculate the amount of passing time. But it was of no consequence. He was way beyond caring. He just waited for the fog to win and subsume him into darkness. 

The sound of a distinct clatter of shoes, no, high heels and two pair of boots, was intruding into his foggy mind. The bolt was unlocked and the door opened. He felt someone lean over him. “Sherlock, Dear. Time to leave,” a distinctive voice said. 

Sherlock mind fought a last time against the red-grey haze that surrounded him. He knew the voice - The Woman. 

“Pick him up, we need to hurry,” she ordered. Something heavy was dumped beside him. He was lifted up and carried over someone’s shoulder out of his cell. With the sound of the door closing, he lost his consciousness.


	7. Under the bludgeonings of chance

**London**

The next week forced John into inactivity. He could not go back to Baker Street. For all means, he needed to appear dead. He could only help Greg from the shadows. Also Greg did his best to avoid being seen in public and spent most of his time at the Yard or in secret phone conferences with Mycroft. 

John passed some of the time with reading newspapers and browsing the web on his new phone. There was nothing of interest. Just the usual gossip about stars and royals – especially the Arab prince and his adventures were a current favourite of the yellow press. But there was nothing about increased crime rates. Even Greg Lestrade was puzzled, that the press didn’t report about the more than usual criminal activities. 

To kill time, John spent his time with some free-weight exercise. At least he got tired and was able to sleep in the evening. He didn’t know, what would happen in the near future, but he promised Greg, he would be ready when needed. 

One evening John walked to St. Bart's hospital. Molly usually worked long hours and John hoped to find her there. Mrs. Hudson's comment about Sherlock never left him. The more he thought about Sherlock's jump, the more ideas came to him, how to stage it. John imagined his own scenarios and how he would set up a fake suicide. In most of them, Molly were involved. To curb his nagging curiosity, he needed to speak to her. 

He sneaked into the Hospital before visitors’ closing time. Being a doctor had its advantages now. He knew exactly, how the staff and the security at hospitals worked. The more you looked like you belong, the lesser the chance of getting stopped. And nobody really checked, if all visitors really had left the building.

John descenced to the lower levels, where the laboratories and the morgue were located. There he looked for a broom closet to hide in. Soon, he heard the staff starting to leave the laboratories. Every ‘Goodbye’ and ‘See you tomorrow,’emptied the corridors and increased his chances to meet with Molly unseen. 

Everything became silent around eight o’clock. John still waited for another hour. Through the crack between the door and the floor he could see, that the light was dimmed to night mode. Silently he crept out of the closet and sneaked down the corridor to the morgue. The lights in there were still on. Behind the doors he saw a petite person illuminated through the frosted glass. He pulled out pen and paper from his pockets an scribbled a short note. He waited till the shadow of the person retreated further into the room toward the offices. He opened the door silently and tiptoed in. 

He slowly went to Molly's office in the back and entered her field of vision carefully. She looked up at him and a small smile grew on her lips. Before she could start with a greeting, John put his finger on his lips to indicate for silence. He gave her the note. 

‘Assume that your office is bugged. Don't talk. Write.’

Her eyes widened, but she nodded. She motioned him over to a cluttered corner with an old lab computer, opened a word document and started to write.

‘What's the matter?’ She shoved the keyboard towards him. John eyed the computer suspiciously. 

Molly understood instantly his hesitation. ‘This thing has no internet access. It is just for simulation runs,’ she typed. 

John relaxed and joined her at the screen. ‘Moriarty,’ he typed. ‘I need some answers from you.’

Molly paled visibly and stared at him. She opened her mouth, but John put his fingers on her lips. He typed, ‘Molly, please. Whatever you know, I need you to tell me. I had snipers following Mrs. Hudson and me. We think Sherlock is still alive. Please, help me out here.’

Molly took a deep breath and started to type. ‘Sherlock asked me to help him. The jump was one of his back-up plans. We never thought he really had to use it. He staged it, I don't know how. I provided a corpse that was similar to him. Then I prepared it accordingly to his instructions. We faked some photographs. I attested his death. I just made sure, nobody came too close. I couldn't tell you. He said you were under surveillance. I am sorry.’ She looked apprehensively at John. 

With every word, that Molly typed, John felt how the iron fist, that had clamped around his heart loosened. Molly's text got blurred. Tears formed in his eyes. For moments he struggled to keep silent. He fought to keep his breathing even and flat. His hands clenched and unclenched. 

Molly watched him worriedly. After John regained his composure he took the keyboard. ‘Thank you, Molly.’ John made sure that gratefulness was shown on his face. He smiled relieved. ‘Do you know where he is?’

‘No. He left after we had prepared the corpse. I have no way to contact him. I don't know if he is alright. Is there anything, I can do?’ she typed. 

‘No. Not at the moment.’ After hesitating John continued typing. ‘How can we keep in contact? It is quite a hassle to sneak in here. Ideally something, where you already check often, and someone who monitors you won't get suspicious.’

Molly thought. After some time, she blushed. ‘Post an ad at 'AdultFriendFinder' in the FFM section. Sign it with SoldierBoy. We can then communicate via Private Messaging.’

John's eyes widened. Well, he thought, nobody would probably assume some communication from Molly and him at a swinger site. And if she checked in there regularly, it was brilliant. He grinned and nodded. 

John stayed late into the night and continued his discussion with Molly via the computer. Molly assured him, that some keyboard typing way at this time would not be suspicious, if someone was listening in on her. 

John’s spirits were soaring after he had confirmation that Sherlock hadn't died. But he was still worried, because he didn't know if his friend was currently okay. And while he was miffed, that he hadn't been able to help Sherlock two months ago and had mourned him, he was grateful, that Molly was able to support him. He understood that Sherlock had played a difficult and dangerous game against Moriarty, and he even accepted that Sherlock had no way of including him - especially, if they had been under close surveillance. John was impressed, that Sherlock was able to pull this all off. So much the worse he felt for his last argument with him: He called Sherlock a machine – but all the time Sherlock was trying to set everything up to fool Moriarty and get everyone out alive. There was one thing, John was certain of: Friends protect friends. And Moriarty had done his best, to seperate Sherlock from his friends. Unfortunately he succeeded. After everything John learned so far, he knew he did Sherlock a disservice and did not deserve Sherlock's loyalty. He wanted to make it up to him.

Sometime after midnight, Molly deleted the whole document they had written. She even did short term memory wipe. After a good-bye hug, both happy, that they now were no longer alone with their sorrows, John headed back to his bolt hole. 

On his walk through various back alleys he mulled over the fact, that Molly was in a high risk position and had no mode of self-defence. She had been an important factor in Sherlock’s plan but had no protection, if his deceit became known. He needed to find a solution for that.

In his week of waiting John also met with Lestrade twice. He didn't tell him about Molly or his assumption that Sherlock was still alive. Just because he survived the jump, didn’t mean, that he hadn’t encountered trouble later on. If Sherlock was still alive, then he was in hiding for two months and probably still working against Moriarty. And that was definitely dangerous. He first wanted irrefutable proof, before he declared Sherlock alive. 

Lestrade worked on coffee and iron will alone. But with Mycroft providing a list he knew exactly who Moriarty’s men were. A contact in Switzerland gave them all the information including incriminating documents. The problem was the amount of people under Moriarty’s thumb. 

For every person they had to arrest at the Metropolitan Police including the Yard Lestrade needed two people. And Lestrade needed to trust those. He started with Sally Donovan. Sally was easily convinced. She already suspected some foul schemes at play. She was surprised at all the evidence that supported her suspicions. She immediately agreed to help Greg. And so they started to gather supporters for their cause. They talked to all their old mates in the force – eye to eye – to help them against Moriarty. Everyone and everything was first scrutinised and if trustworthy briefed. 

Greg also considered calling DI Dimmock, but he had been transferred to investigate a series of murders in Brighton over two weeks ago. A return of him without a closure of the case would have been suspicious. Sally declared Anderson as a lost case, too. She couldn’t believe that he could keep his cool. All the work with Sherlock had shown, that Anderson wasn't really the best man in the force. Even Sally had to admit that after all the investigations that had to be redone due to Sherlock's fall and rehabilitation. 

Mycroft coordinated the round up of supporters in many offices and agencies across the UK and Europe. The problem was that not only police officers were part of Moriarty’s web. Also politicians, judges and journalists worked for Moriarty. But with all the undercover work and informal networks Mycroft, Greg and Sally started to close in on them. They soon could take the final steps. 

The Operation “De-Bugging”, as they called it, would start in three days, a Thursday morning. In a coordinated effort all incriminated personnel would be arrested in on concentrated effort. Till then, Greg and Sally needed to coordinate their people and put them on Moriarty's helpers. If the operation went wrong, it would have dire consequences for Mycroft and his supporters. If this went right, it would be a serious setback for organised crime. 

John tried to help as much as he could. But he was in no official capacity so he was left with minor work in the background. He was a sounding board for Greg regarding the strategic planning. And he helped to set up a safe-zone at some of the NSY meeting rooms. He de-bugged them and took care that they were without surveillance. It was tedious, but better than just waiting. The days just blurred into each other. 

On a Monday evening he wanted to join Greg at NSY again. He was on his way to the entrance on to the underground parking. The door there became the main mode for Greg and his supporters for entering and leaving the Yard. It had just started raining and John pulled up his hoodie to protect himself from the drizzle. The moment he reached the door a familiar black car pulled up from the alley behind him. Without missing a step, he changed course towards it. The car door opened and he slipped in.

Mycroft sat impervious as ever in the seat facing away from the driver. An umbrella in an eccentric red and gold pattern rested against his knees. “Hello, Dr Watson. It is good to see you.” 

“Mycroft,” John acknowledged. They hadn’t met since Sherlock’s funeral. All information so far had been conveyed via Greg. John was still pissed that Mycroft had told Moriarty details about Sherlock’s life and therefore fed the fixation on him.

Mycroft fiddled with the shiny black handle of the umbrella. “We always knew Moriarty was big. But this goes beyond anything we had imagined. We are certain, that we have zeroed in on the main players now. But I didn't come to chat. I have a job for you.”

“I don't work for you,” John said. 

Mycroft took a pained breath. The rain was picking up and drumming against the roof of the car. “Let me explain first. You can decline later.” John nodded to indicate, that he was willing to listen. 

“My contact in Switzerland, the same who sent me the list of Moriarty's men, informed me, that a British citizen was freed from Moriarty's hands. A doctor was requested for retrieval. At the moment I am quite short of personnel, especially with medical knowledge. My contact gave me an address for the pick-up. I trust him and he trust this source implicitly. Unfortunately he couldn't tell me more. It could be any of my old contacts or agents. And I feel obliged to get him back to England.” Mycroft shifted in his seat. It was obvious that he disliked asking for something.

“Well, Dr Watson,” he continued, “would you be willing to help me out here? I can’t give you a proper risk assessment, but you are a trained soldier and should be able to help yourself. You should still have a gun from Greg. I can furthermore provide you with papers for two fake identities, medical supplies, a safe house and some funding. Of course I will pay you for the endeavour in the end, too. If something goes wrong, I try to help, but I can't promise anything.”

John chuckled without humour. “I expected something along the line: 'if something goes wrong, we will deny anything.'”

“This is not a Bond movie,” Mycroft huffed. “And I don’t want to send you into unnecessary risk. But all the planning and the retrieval must be handled by you. I don't have any resources left. Well, what is your answer?”

John had already made up his mind. Waiting for something to happen in his bolt hole made him crazy. He couldn't help Lestrade in an official capacity. He had nothing to lose, probably not even his job anymore. He was gone for over a week now. His current employer wasn’t really impressed with his work ethics. He had been overtired and grumpy most of the time. And according to Greg not even a missing person’s report was filed for him. 

Sherlock was somewhere out there. So he had to get out of London and into the game. He may not want to be best buddies with Mycroft, but this was his chance to get closer to Moriarty's network, and perhaps to find Sherlock. 

“Okay, I am in.” John said curtly.

Mycroft smiled relieved. “Very good. The pick-up is an address in Ostrava, Czech Republic. The safe house is in Berlin, Germany. Everything you need is in the back pack my assistant will provide. Oh, there is a catch however: You need to retrieve the agent till Thursday morning. My Swiss contact needs his resources freed for Operation De-Bugging. And whatever happens on Thursday, we assume Eastern Europe will feel some consequences, too. I don’t know when I will be able to pick you up at the safe house. But it may take a while. That is all.”

John just rolled his eyes and left the car. Before exiting, he indicated towards the umbrella. “May I borrow that? Rain’s a bitch.”

Mycroft laughed. “This is an individual item. I would only lend it someone when I am sure to get it back. And I don’t think it fits your current style, Dr Watson.”

John just huffed annoyed and got out of the car. The rain had picked up in the last few minutes and was already drenching him. He threw an evil glare at Mycroft and prepared to close the door more forcefully than necessary. 

Mycroft spoke up again. “I lost my brother, Dr Watson. Don't believe that I feel indifferent about that. Your hostility toward me may be justified, but you must know, that I deeply regret my involvement and my inability to help him. I hope, you can forgive me and we can work together against the murderer of Sherlock.”

John stared at him. After some seconds, his face softened and he nodded. John strongly suspected Sherlock was still alive. But he hadn't the heart or the proof to tell Mycroft so. What was worse, than giving the man hope, just to be proven wrong? If Sherlock was still alive, then he would forgive Mycroft anyway. If not, Mycroft still had to bear the guilt of betraying his brother. His hatred on top was unnecessary.

John turned away from the car door toward one of Mycroft’s assistants. He huddled under an umbrella and clutched a backpack. John was drenched now; the leather jacket only provided moderate protection. An umbrella would be of no use anymore. And he hadn’t the heart to harass one of Mycroft minions. He grabbed the backpack and disappeared into the alley he came from. 

John braced against the rain and hurried back to his bolt hole. First he changed into dry clothes and then he inspected the content of the backpack. After finding the addresses he thought about getting there. Flying was not an option. He wanted to take the gun with him.

Driving was difficult, too. He did not have the time and money to buy a car, and renting a car bore the risk of being discovered, because he needed to provide a proof of identity and a driving licence. Also the trip would at least take 18 hours. He was alone and on a schedule. When he added the breaks to the overall driving time, it might take too long. 

Grudgingly he looked up the train connections to Ostrava. Just a look at the travel time confirmed, that the trip was harrowing, it took 22 hours. Additional to that, he had to switch trains seven times. But at least he could take naps while travelling. If everything went well, he would arrive Tuesday evening. 

He resolved to buy the ticket at St. Pancras station. He had two hours to catch his train. He packed his backpack fast: Some clothes, the med kit and the folder with the material for the fake papers. All of his money and the gun went into his pockets. 

In a last minute decision, he took the Taser out of the trunk and wrapped it into some old newspapers. With some scraps torn from a dirty vest he tied it into a small parcel. He clamped it under his arm, shouldered his backpack, grabbed the damp leather jacket and left the bolt hole. 

He was near a tube station on Jubilee line. He had to switch lanes on Baker Street anyway to get to St. Pancras, so he stepped out there and looked for a familiar face. Sherlock sometimes had pointed out his contacts of his homeless network. He desperately hoped that they would help him now. He was lucky. There was a woman he recognised not far away from the station entry. He scribbled a short note, pinned it and a 50 pound note to the parcel and gave it to the woman. 

First she looked confused, but John whispered: “I believe in Sherlock Holmes.” The woman nodded once. With that he straightened and walked back into the station to catch his tube to St. Pancras.

There he bought his ticket and some food and waited for the departure of his train in a small coffee shop. In the meantime he connected to the hotspot and created an account at Adultfriendfinder with his William Miller alias. He left a short message from SoldierBoy in the FFM Forum.


	8. My head is bloody, but unbowed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will John find Sherlock?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a beta now :-)
> 
>  
> 
> A very big Thank You to Brainless-Septiclock. You are the best!

The train ride was as horrible as John had expected and it made him restless. He tried to nap whenever possible but needed to change trains regularly, so that didn’t work out. And  he also tried to keep out of everybody’s way. The time waiting at stations he spent standing in the shadows. Since all this began, he had stopped shaving. His growing beard helped change his features. He didn’t need to be an approachable doctor now. His gruff appearance kept people away, and that was good. 

At stops in the Netherlands and in Germany, he changed small amounts of money from pounds into euros. He bought himself some snacks and drank way too much coffee. His gun was always readily available hidden in the back of his trousers. But nobody really took any notice of him and he was glad for that. 

John also had a lot to think about. His instinct told him that he was on the right track. The sniper he had killed, Sebastian Moran, had gotten his commands from Eastern Europe and now he was being sent there to retrieve an agent who had been in contact with Moriarty’s men. John remembered what Sherlock always said: The universe is rarely so lazy. If he was lucky, the agent could tell him something about Moriarty or Sherlock. If not, then John would deliver him to Berlin and come back to the Czech Republic to track down Moriarty himself. 

John had an inexplicable need to find Sherlock. The more he thought about the idea of him being alive, the more he craved to be at Sherlock's side. The whole story, or the game, as Sherlock used to say, wasn’t finished. And John refused to be just a bystander. He had started the whole thing with Sherlock and he wanted to finish it – even if it was the last thing he would do. John thought back on his last two months. He had felt dead. In the first week after Sherlock’s suicide he just wanted to rage at the insanity of it, but later on felt like his feet got kicked out mid-run, his body coming to a stop and tumbling down. He had no energy left and he was just going through the motions. He had lost his target, was being dragged down by gravity and waiting to crash. But now he was being pulled by a strange force toward the Czech-Polish border, and deep down in his bones he felt that it was the right direction.

He arrived in Ostrava on Tuesday evening to a beautiful sunset. The final rays of sunshine were the first he had experienced since November. London had been clouded in rain and fog since Sherlock’s jump. He hadn’t really registered the absence of sunlight in the last months, but now he realized that he missed it. He basked in the light till the sun vanished below the horizon. Some of the tension that had accumulated during the last few hours vanished from him. He still felt gritty, so he first visited a public loo and refreshed himself a little bit.

John bought another coffee and a tourist map at the station. After studying it, he had a rough idea where he needed to go. Without hesitation, he walked for 15 minutes to the address Mycroft had given him. 

He arrived at an Art Nouveau-styled mansion. It was impressive even in the dark. The way to the entrance door was lit and looked welcoming. He looked up and down the street, but there was no doubt that he was at the right place. He stepped up to the entrance door and rang the bell. The modern bell system had been fitted with a camera, John noticed, and he doubted that he could surprise the owner. Nevertheless he kept his hand on the handle of the gun at his back. His other hand clutched the strap of his backpack. 

After a few moments, the door was opened by a young maid and he was ushered in. 

“Come in, Dr Watson,” she said. “No need for caution. You are with friends. Please follow me.”

John was startled to be greeted by his name. He had assumed he had travelled here incognito. John followed the maid into an open living room which was tastefully decorated in dark rich colours and wooden panels. Two wingback chairs and a settee were arranged around a fireplace. The fire was lit and painted everything in warm colours. From one of the chairs, a woman dressed in a long gown rose and stepped towards him. John would have recognized her anywhere: Irene Adler.  
   
“Welcome, my dear Doctor. It is good to see you - alive,” she greeted him. “There was a terrible rumour of you being killed.”  
   
John was baffled. He had thought Irene was dead. Mycroft had told him so. He gathered his wits. “It is good to see you alive too,” he responded, stunned.  
   
Irene laughed. “It seems the information we both heard about each other was wrong. Good for us. Follow me.” She walked down a corridor and led him to a door. John trailed behind her numbly. 

“There is someone else whose news about his demise was a little premature. I am grateful, that you are here now. He is a horrible patient,” she said exasperated. 

With that, she pulled open the door and entered into a cosy bedroom. John followed. The room contained a king size bed, a wardrobe and a desk. Another door led to an en-suite bathroom. On the bed, under some blankets and buried into the pillows the outline of a body could be seen. 

“Sherlock, dear! You have a visitor.” Irene stepped to the bed and pulled the blanket away. Then she turned to John, who was frozen in place. “Doctor, he is all yours. I am done with begging him to eat. It's no fun, when he is moping around. If you need anything, ring for the maid. We meet tomorrow for breakfast.”

With that, she flounced out of the room, kicking the door shut with her heels. 

John stared at the bed. Struggling into a sitting position was Sherlock. He looked dishevelled, pale and way too thin. The shirt and pyjamas bottoms were too big on him and made him appear even smaller. Some bruises were visible on his cheekbones, jaw and arms. Disbelief was written on his face. 

“John?” he scrambled up from the bed to a kneeling position. 

John felt paralysed. He heard the blood rushing in his ears. He was afraid that if he moved, the moment would shatter and he would realise that his mind was simply playing tricks on him. John lost his grip on his backpack and it thumped on the ground. He took a few steadying breaths and some tentative steps toward the bed. Tears gathered in John’s eyes and laughter bubbled up in him.  
   
“Sherlock!” Without further hesitation, he pulled Sherlock into a crushing hug.

He felt Sherlock hugging him back. John’s senses confirmed this without any doubt: Sherlock was alive. He felt the ribcage pressed to his expanding with every inhalation, and the warm air of every exhalation on his neck. Warmth seeped through his clothes. The hair tickled his cheeks. This was real. He buried his face into the nape of Sherlock's neck. 

“Oh my god,” John mumbled, “it is so good to see you alive. Don’t pull a stunt like that ever again.”

Sherlock loosened the embrace and looked into John's eyes. He was also uncertain if he could trust his senses. He held John by his shoulders unwilling to let go. 

“I thought you were dead. He gave the order to kill you –” Sherlock struggled for words, “- you and the others. How did you survive?”

“That's a longer story,” John smiled relieved. They reluctantly released each other. Disbelief and awe was written on both their faces. They were both shocked and neither was willing to look somewhere else in fear of this being a dream. After some more moments of staring they erupted into giggles. 

When they calmed down again, John took off his leather jacket and shoes and sat on the bed to join Sherlock. He groaned as he made contact with the mattress and just let himself fall backwards. 

“I hate travelling by train,” he exclaimed, “I’m not going to move again for the next few hours.” With that, they both got comfortable on the bed like it was a big sofa and slowly started talking. It took them well into the night to get up to speed with each other. 

John told Sherlock about his adventures in the last week: how the phone and the recording were found by Lestrade, how he got rid of his and Mrs. Hudson’s surveillance and the sniper and finally how Mycroft sent him here. 

Sherlock in return told him how he had underestimated Moriarty's insanity and how he had been forced to jump. He explained how he had made it possible to pull it off, with just the help of Molly, an employee from Madame Tussauds and five people from his homeless network. Between the lines, John realized how tight the margin for error had been. He understood the necessity to keep things away from Mycroft, after it became clear how many people had been involved and how close they had been monitored by Moriarty. 

Sherlock also confessed his frustration that he couldn’t have gotten close to John due to the surveillance and how any sign of him being alive would have lead to the pulling of triggers. He also explained why he had had to leave London. If he wanted to win against Moriarty, he had had to find another way to weaken him and his network. Sherlock related how he had been able to convince an old school friend of Mycroft of the conspiracy and to help him. And finally he confessed why and how Irene was still alive. She was now living in Canada. When she had heard that Sherlock was captured, she decided to come back to Europe. She had two reasons for helping Sherlock: First to repay her debts to Sherlock and second, to take revenge on Moriarty. She had parted with Moriarty in bad blood – he just played her and she was furious because of that. The mansion they were currently hiding in belonged to a trusted client of Irene and he would do anything for her. 

During the last part, John dug out the med kit and did a check up on Sherlock. Surprisingly, Sherlock didn't protest. Despite being way too thin, all his wounds and bruises had healed adequately. John could tell that he had been restrained and beaten severely. Irene had done what was necessary to help Sherlock and had paid a doctor to check for internal injuries, but nothing life threatening had been found. Some of the wounds like those on his wrists, back and knees might scar, but John could minimize that by proper aftercare. Sherlock also sustained three cracked ribs, but they had started to heal nicely. John felt a simmering fury, when Sherlock told him, that he had been locked in a cellar to die. No food, no water, no one to check up on him. He could have choked to death on his own vomit. Prisoners of war would have gotten better treatment. 

Sherlock had been retrieved from his prison six days ago. He had spent the last week recuperating at the mansion. Irene had forced him to eat, despite him not being hungry. Sherlock had been beyond consolation, because he had thought he had failed in keeping his friends alive. Irene had tried her best to lighten his mood and had coaxed him into cooperating. John heard between the lines that her occupation as a dominatrix seemed to make her a good nurse, too. 

John diagnosed that Sherlock showed certain signs of depression, but he wasn’t surprised by that. This was in line with the exhaustion and the nightmares. But in sum, John was satisfied with what he saw. He had expected a person in much worse shape, after the vague hints Mycroft had given him. Feeding Sherlock up and taking care of his mental health always had been his mission. He just had to double his efforts. 

John called the maid and asked for some dinner. The savoury soup, some bread, cheese and sausages were exactly the food they needed. They picnicked on the bed. Both devoured every last crumb. Neither John nor Sherlock had eaten properly in the last months, but now had found their appetite again. One of the main reasons for their lack of appetite – grief - was gone. 

The empty plates were put on the ground. They just stayed on the bed, brought each other up to date and shared their ideas. Both enjoyed each other’s company. What was thought to be lost forever was regained again. 

Sometime after midnight both were yawning more than talking. They were exhausted; John by the long trip and Sherlock was still recuperating from his ordeal as a captive. Both felt comfortable where they were, so they just drifted off to sleep, side by side. The sleep was deep and merciful without any nightmares troubling them. 

John wrinkled his nose. Something tickled and and it finally woke him up. His eyes were still closed, but he sensed the daylight was illuminating the room. He was warm and comfortable. Slowly all his senses came alive. He had rolled onto his back during the night. Sherlock's head rested on his shoulder, arm and were leg flung possesively over John. John’s own arm was slung around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock's longer than usual hair flopped partly over John's mouth and nose, thus tickling him awake. 

His first impulse was to tense up, but he soon relaxed again. It felt okay. If felt right. If Sherlock wanted to use him as a pillow, he was happy to comply. This was better than anything else he had experienced in the last weeks. He stayed like that for another five minutes and enjoyed the calm that had settled over him. Unfortunately, his bladder called for attention. He slowly peeled himself out of the embrace, causing a small grumble from Sherlock's lips. John grabbed his backpack and silently tiptoed toward the bathroom. 

While there, he brushed his teeth and inspected himself in the mirror. His beard came along nicely, but he still looked drawn and tired. He sighed, discarded his clothes in a pile and jumped into the shower. It felt glorious. The last shower he had had was at the hospital after his shift over a week ago and since then he had had to make do with short wash at the sink in his bolthole. When finished he towelled himself dry. The bruises on his stomach and tears from his struggle with the sniper were healing nicely and had faded into a dirty yellow. The whole bathroom was steamed up and humid. He slung the towel around his waist, picked up his laundry and his bag and crept back into the bedroom. He needn't have bothered, because Sherlock was awake and sat forlornly in the bed. Upon seeing him, his face lit up. He scrutinised John from head to toe. 

“You lost weight,” he stated. 

John chuckled and pointed at him, “pot,” and at himself, “kettle.”

Sherlock smiled. It was true. They both looked rather battered.

John rummaged through his backpack and retrieved some fresh clothes. “Let's get ready. We need to get out of here. Mycroft doesn't think it is safe for us to stay in Ostrava. He organized a safe house. And breakfast would be great, too.”

Sherlock just nodded. They had already discussed this yesterday. He went to the wardrobe, fished out some clothes and vanished into the bathroom.  
John dressed and repacked his backpack diligently. He took out his fake identities. His own was already completely done. For Sherlock he needed to choose a photo out of a portfolio that came with the ID kit. It needed to be as close as possible to Sherlock's appearance. Mycroft hadn't known who he had needed to retrieve, and had therefore given him a wide array of photos to fit into the prepared passport with the name Ian Miller. The biggest problem had been the eye colour on the passport templates and the photos. He had had to choose between blue and brown. The ones that fitted best were a gaunt lad with reddish-brown hair, glasses and blue eyes, and a dark haired guy with brown eyes. The other photos were too different. Either Sherlock had to wear contacts or they had to dye his hair. He was too recognisable after all the press coverage of his suicide, too. Before being able to make a final decision, Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, dressed in a chequered button down shirt, blue jeans and converse shoes.

John examined him in his unfamiliar look. “Sherlock, how do you feel about redheads?” John asked. 

Sherlock threw a short glance at John and the papers in front of him. He knew instantly what John was talking about.

“What must be done, must be done. Let's consult with Irene over breakfast.” He looked at the alarm clock at the bedside table. “Or better: brunch.” With that, he opened the door. John followed him to the dining room, where they found their hosts. Irene was already sipping her tea. Kate, her wife, sat beside her reading a newspaper. Irene looked up and smiled. 

“Well, would you look at that. The lovebirds reunited,” she drawled, grinning at Kate. John rolled his eyes. While he had used to correct people on that, the usual knee-jerk reaction to the statement 'I am not gay' no longer erupted from him. He was way too happy to have Sherlock back. If people wanted to assume, he didn't care anymore. 

“None of your business, Irene,” Sherlock clipped and threw a nervous glance at John. They took a seat at the table. “Let's talk business,”  Sherlock said. 

“Spoilsport! What do you need?” Irene grinned over her cup of tea. 

“Red hair dye and some fake glasses for a start. A suitcase, some clothes and toiletries would be helpful, too.” Sherlock grabbed the teapot and poured some tea for John and himself, while John started to fill their plates. John then began to outline his and Sherlock's next steps to Irene. Irene instantly sent one of her staff into town to go shopping for necessities. 

“How do you want to get to the safe house?” she asked. 

“We will try to rent a car.  If that fails, the train would also be a possibility,” Sherlock explained. 

“I have a better idea,” Kate spoke up. “Take the car in the garage, the Škoda. It is unremarkable. Leave it somewhere in Berlin, best in a restricted parking zone. It will get towed and the owner will get informed. Theft happens all the time around here, so no one will be any the wiser of how you travel.”

“If the car does not get towed and reported within two weeks,” Irene added, “I will tell the owner to report it stolen when he gets back. I will sort it out, don't worry.”

Sherlock looked at John. This could work. They didn't have a driving licence, but if they don't get stopped by the police, that wouldn't matter. It was a risk they were willing to take. Both nodded at the same time. Plan accepted. 

“Perfect.” Irene said. “Kate and I will leave for Canada this evening. I don't intend to spend more time than necessary in the vicinity of Moriarty. We need to get everything ready.”  

When they finished breakfast, the maid had already returned with the hair dye and the glasses.

“Let me help you with that, I am quite a good hairdresser,” Kate offered, beaming at her wife. With that, the whole house prepared for departure: Suitcases were packed, travel routes discussed and passports finalized.


	9. Beyond this place of wrath and tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should add more tags, but I don't want to give the plot away. 
> 
> Again a very big Thank You to Brainless-Septiclock for beta-ing.
> 
> Any remaining mistakes are my fault :-)

They were ready to start at four o'clock in the afternoon. A coiffed Sherlock adorned with simple glasses and freshly dyed hair, and John with a beard, baseball cap and hoodie: A hipster and a back packer on a road trip, probably matched by a car sharing app. They made quite a pair. 

After thanks and goodbyes to Irene and Kate they took off. They crossed through Poland without any complications and arrived in Berlin within six hours. No one bothered to check them when they crossed the borders. The EU open border policy worked in their favour and everything went according to plan. The safe house was located on the outskirts of Berlin and was easy to find. It was a small cottage and stood a little remote from other buildings. 

They dropped the car in the darkness of the night on a public parking lot and walked 30 minutes to the safe house. A key code granted them access to the small building. John did a quick check, gun at the ready as he scanned through the rooms. There was a kitchen, a living room and a small bathroom downstairs, and a big bathroom with a master bedroom and another smaller bedroom upstairs. 

The kitchen had been stocked with food for at least two weeks. Entertainment like television, internet and books were available. Everything had quite a homey feeling to it. All they had to do now was waiting for Mycroft to contact them.

Despite it being rather late, John prepared a light meal for both Sherlock and him. He had found his appetite again and it he liked preparing meals, if he wasn't the only one eating.Sherlock devoured the meal with gusto. They took turns visiting the bathroom and preparing for bed. Their routines from living together at Baker Street had reemerged without them noticing. It was like a dance, that they had never forgotten. In the end they both drifted toward the master bedroom. 

The first few seconds in front of the big bed were awkward. After some hesitation, they decided, to share the master bedroom, despite the availability of another bedroom. In case of an intruder, it seemed safer to stick together, and neither John nor Sherlock were ready, to separate for the night. The bed was huge enough, anyway. They had shared smaller accommodations during cases. They settled in the bed and turned off the light. Despite all the time together in the last 24 hours, there was still a lot to talk about till late into the night. 

Like the previous day they fell asleep side by side. They slept well into the next day. While yesterday, John slept like a log, he was now more restless. Nightmares intruded his rest. The suppressed grief, fury and anxiousness from the last two months caught up with him. John awoke around ten in the morning. During the night, they had drifted together again, bodies aligned and tangled together, Sherlock snuggled into his side. Warm puffs of breaths landed on his shoulder. The tension from the previous night drained out of him and he just felt peaceful. He enjoyed the rest for endless minutes till his stomach rumbled hungrily. 

“You should eat,” Sherlock's sleepy voice announced. 

John startled. “You're awake?” 

“Obviously.”

“Why didn’t you get up?” John asked hesitantly. 

“Comfy,” Sherlock stated, nestling closer toward John, pressing into his side. 

John’s heart sped up. ‘They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered’, he once read. He tensed again. Why did this feel so normal? Did best friends cuddle? Why was this okay, even though he had never thought of doing something like that with his army mates?

Sherlock propped himself up. “John. Calm down. It doesn’t have to mean anything. I apologise.” Sherlock pulled away looking crestfallen. 

John halted him, hand resting on his shoulder. “But what if it does? If this means something. Or am I just going insane?” He paused. “The last few months, I felt like all my senses had been muted. Everything was dimming around me. But not now, not here. I feel alive again,” John confessed closing his eyes. 

He sorted through his thoughts. “I feel peaceful now. But there's also grief and fury. I want to scream at you for jumping, or tie you forcibly down to keep you from leaving. It’s violent. But I also want to hold you, rest with you and keep my hands on your pulse points to convince myself that you are alive; that this is real.” John lowered his hand to Sherlock's wrist and felt his heartbeat. He counted some beats to calm himself down. John’s voice became a whisper. “It’s like a Hieronymus Bosch painting. It gets worse the more I think about it.” He stared at the ceiling, fighting down the onslaught of emotions that so long were absent. 

Sherlock lowered himself back beside John. He settled his hand above John's. “John, listen to me. The last months were cruel. We were played. Moriarty tried to isolate us. He used our weak points to his advantage. That is his game. But from now on it's us against the world. I don’t care how close we get, as long as we don’t drift apart anymore. I am sorry for leaving you behind, but I had no choice. Moriarty needed us separated. I want to stay at your side now. Up to the day we met, I used to be alone. The last two months I was alone again. But in the last two years I realized: together is better. You were right: Friends protect friends.”

John took deep breaths. He fought the tumultuous emotions back. He took the hand that rested upon his own and clasped it tightly. “I am with you, wherever this may lead us,” he vowed. Their eyes locked. A shy smile formed on their lips. John’s stomach growled again – and they burst into giggles. 

The moment was lsot and they stood up to start their day. They took turns in the bathroom and prepared breakfast. It was almost noon, and both decided on coffee, eggs and bacon with additional slices of bread and sausages. 

During preparation, John switched the telly on. The regular programme had been interrupted and breaking news about arrests were now broadcasted on every station. In many European countries, members of the police force and security agencies were sweeping into national offices to round up Moriarty’s men. High ranking policemen, but also businessmen and politicians were taken into custody. A close up on Sally Donovan showed her escorting a handcuffed judge to a police car. Operation Debeugging seemed to be in full swing. 

The BBC reported how three high ranking NSY officers had been arrested. The subdivisions for curtailing of drugs trafficking and counter terrorism were the most heavily affected. Every minute new allegations were named and another crime was reported. It seemed that with a certain momentum at the base, the higher-ups were no longer able to cover up questionable connections and decisions. Moriarty's web of supporters and facilitators was crumbling.

A short clip of an earlier recorded press conference was shown. Lestrade was the main speaker. He spoke of the operation and what needed to be done. Then he was answering a reporter's question where he explained how all information on the servers was duplicated earlier to avoid data loss due to intentional tampering. John pitied Lestrade. He looked like death warmed over. He desperately needed sleep. Similar press conferences were held all over Europe. Mycroft was true to his word and had coordinated the downfall of Moriarty's web diligently.

The main action had happened in London, Prague, Paris, Zurich and Athens, but ties to Asian and US cities were also exposed. A lot of connections were discovered and questions asked. In the evening, investigative reporters started to back up the news with additional material, cementing the allegations against the arrested. The offenses included abuse of position, drug and human trafficking, money laundering, blackmail, cover-ups and many more. By late evening, the first politicians were starting to resign. It seemed that parts of Europe had turned into a banana republic. 

Sherlock and John spent the rest of the day in front of the telly, surfing from channel to channel and raiding the fridge when hungry. They enjoyed the easy camaraderie. It didn't matter, that they weren't at Baker Street. The feeling of belonging was present in the safe house, too. Around midnight they retired to bed. 

This set the pace for the next few days. Most of the time, they watched the news. Due to their involvement with Moriarty, they felt a deep sense of satisfaction with the current proceedings. When hungry, they took their time to cook and eat. If the rooms got too stuffy, they hid behind baseball caps and went for a walk along the nearby river. With the money from John, they bought some fresh produce in a a small whole-food shop some streets further down. They settled into a relaxed and calming routine. 

One thing, however, had changed. Each night they were drawn closer to each other. First, they had just held each other through the night. The next evening, John had started to lightly caress Sherlock’s arms and back. During the night Sherlock’s hands had found their way below John’s shirt, caressing his chest and belly. 

The next evening, the soft caresses had became bolder, but were still quite innocent. Sherlock had seemed desperate for touch and had melted into John. That night, John had been startled awake from a nightmare. He had sat up and tried to catch his breath. Sherlock had just pulled him into his arms and planted soft kisses in his hair, on his forehead and cheekbones, calming him back to sleep. 

John dimly acknowledged Sherlock’s arousal from time to time. But ii didn't feel threatening or demanding. It just made him aware of own arousal during the following evening. Legs intertwined, their erections were pressed together. It just felt too good, and John started to slowly move his hips to gain some friction against the fabric of the pajama bottoms and Sherlock's hips. The slow build-up of caresses and strokes led to a surprising release for both of them. While coming down from his high, a wave of emotions collapsed over John. He gulped in some desperate and panicked breaths. 

Sherlock cradled his face gently between his hands and looked into his eyes. “What is it, John?” he asked concerned. 

John cast his eyes searchingly around the room, avoiding Sherlock’s stare.

“W-what is happening to me? It shouldn’t be like this. I c-can’t be like Harry!” he stammered, confused.

“Shush, John, everything is okay. You are okay. Tell me, what about Harry?” Sherlock tried to calm him. 

Tears were gathering in John’s eyes. He turned away from Sherlock. Sherlock stroked his back soothingly. 

After a long time, John calmed down a little bit. “My father sometimes came home drunk.” He started to explain without being prompted. “He always was clumsy, when he entered the house: Banging open doors, tumbling over the carpet, stumbling into cabinets. There was no chance of not noticing him. The day after he found out about Harry being gay, he hit her. He told her, that she was useless and no daughter of his. I could hear everything from my room upstairs. I was too frightened to go downstairs. The following weeks my dad spent a lot of time with me, talking to me about being a man, about women, stuff like that - and how Harry had disappointed him. Then, I thought, he was right. I thought things had to be a certain order: Men married women, had to build a house for his family, plant a tree, father his childern, protect them.” John paused, gathering his thoughts. Sherlock waited patiently, hand resting on John's hip till he continued. 

“He was always fascinated by the armed forces. He couldn’t enlist, because he had a bad knee. So I joined the forces instead because I wanted to make him proud. He died when I was deployed for the first time. I wasn’t able to go to his funeral. But with him dead, some of my reasons to do certain things suddenly didn’t exist anymore. I questioned my motives for being in the army. And I questioned my relationship with Anne, my girlfriend then. I never was a ladies' man, but as a doctor and soldier getting dates wasn’t that difficult. My dad had always pressured me to marry her. I never wanted to.” John struggled to continue. 

“By accident I once saw two soldiers blowing each other off. I was disgusted at first, but I stayed and watched. I was fascinated and aroused. Never came so hard in my life.” John shook his head to banish the memory. “I don’t know what I am saying here. I just don’t know any more.” He buried his face into the cushion. How could something so fundamental like attraction mess him up like that? He liked women But why was it so hard to accept, that he reacted similarly to Sherlock? It shouldn't matter. They were alive, it felt good and after everything the press had written about them, he didn't care anymore what people saw in them. They only believed, what they wanted to anyway.

Sherlock spooned him and held him tight. After some time, they got up to clean themselves and crawled back into bed. John realized how Sherlock was trying to distance himself from him. With a swift but profound decision, John just pulled him closer. It felt right.

The whole night and the next day, John had a lot to think about. He challenged himself to reevalute what he thought was attractive. As a soldier, he had had a stash of porn magazines like everyone else. But he had to admit, it did not completely reflect what he found attractive. He never obsessed over them like some of his army mates did. And he had never looked away, when his fellow soldiers worked out in the make-shift gym under the desert sun. If he was honest, his favourite wank fantasy was about a threesome, with another man and a woman, both taking care of him. The fantasy always left a trace of shame in him. He never ever allowed himself to think about sex with a man only. His father's words always came back to him, telling him that this wasn't natural. But hell, he was almost forty and his father had been dead for over ten years now. Shouldn't he make his own decisions on his love and sex life?

The following evening, a dam was broken in John. He didn't want to care about social norms anymore. He wanted what was good for him. He hugged Sherlock close to him. He placed short tentative kisses on Sherlock’s hair and his lips wandered down to Sherlock's mouth. The first kiss on his lips was hesitant and unsure, but John gained confidence fast. It was not much different from kissing a woman. While with women however he usually was the instigator. Now it felt much more equal. John had never grown a full beard before, therefore the biggest difference came from the missing feeling of skin on skin. But that change was due to him, not because he was kissing a man. After some moments, they found a rhythm of giving and taking. Sherlock melted into the kiss and devoured him. Neither one needed to impress, but both wanted to please. They experimented what felt good, learning from each other. 

Their hands didn’t stay idle and wandered beneath their shirts. It wasn't enough. After a some time, both were without trousers and shirts. Sherlock was elated, that his attraction was reciprocated after all. His dreams and wishes were becoming reality. And John marveled at how alive he felt and how much Sherlock's presence soothed him. The lean body aroused him more, than any previous encounter he had had with a woman. 

John sat up and lowered his hands on Sherlock's pants. He tentatively stroked Sherlock’s erection through the material, watching him intently. John still felt a little bit unsure, because his previous sex life had not prepared him for this. It was like being a virgin again. But he was eager to rectify that. There was so much to explore.

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, and pushed his hips into John's hands. Sherlock watched with hooded eyes, his own hands buried in his still red curls. He didn't want to push John, but he was on fire. 

John divested him of his pants. He was captivated by the view: Pale skin, lean body, taunt muscles. The bruises were almost completely healed and didn't mar him anymore. With caution he took Sherlock’s member in his hands and stroked upwards. It felt like velvet, similar to his own. The effect was immediate. A deep groan reverberated through Sherlock. John licked his palms, and repeated the motion again with more confidence. He tried different rhythms and positions of his hands, he fondled Sherlock's balls and stroked his thighs. Every time, he felt Sherlock coming close, he stopped and waited, resting the hands on the hipbones and calming him. It was fascinating to watch. After some time, Sherlock was flushed and sweating. First he groaned, then whined and swore. In the end, he begged. John finally took mercy on him. Sherlock came with a low and relieved groan, spilling onto his belly and John’s hand. John felt elated. And he realized he was hard as a rock. But the sight in front of him was so fascinating that he refrained from stroking himself and just watched. Sherlock shivered slightly, his skin was flushed and overly sensitive. 

Sherlock recovered slowly and took in John's state. He grinned and scrambled to his knees, unmindful of the mess on his belly. John was pushed back into the cushions. Sherlock took John’s pants off, struggling with the straining erection. Looking into John’s eyes, he lowered his lips toward his groin and engulfed the tip of John’s penis with his mouth. Further gone than he had imagined, the pleasure and the visual pushed John over the edge. The hot mouth released him and some of his come dribbled down his member. He shuddered at the intensity of the sensation. Sherlock grinned lascivious like John had never seen him before. He felt a small stirring of shame for coming so fast. But he couldn’t care. In jest, he threw a pillow weakly at Sherlock, who only chuckled. 

From then on, they enjoyed their evenings in a similar style. They were content with what they had and enjoyed what they could give each other with their hands and mouths. John felt the shyness and shame of being attracted to Sherlock vanishing as he gained confidence in his feelings. He was thankful for the security of the safe house and the time they were given to explore what they had found. There was no need to hurry or to hide anymore. They were moving in the same direction. The speed didn’t matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't know Hieronymus Bosch - google his picture "The last judgement". Nowadays it would need a trigger warning. 
> 
> Comments and Kudos are appreciated!


	10. Looms but the Horror of the shade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very big thank you to my beta. 
> 
> Kudos & comments are appreciated

They spent ten days at the safe house without disruption. While the arrests of Moriarty's men had mostly happened on Thursday, the subsequent investigations were the main topics in the media on the following days. Also the vacated positions in politics and courts also needed to be staffed again and suitable candidates were discussed. The media presented fresh faces and proposed personnel that were already retired and now needed to be reactivated. In two countries new elections were announced, because the backlash of the investigations forced even more politicians to resign. 

On Saturday evening a knock disturbed their routine. John grabbed his gun, and Sherlock donned his fake glasses and a baseball cap. John opened the door with caution. He plastered a fake smile on his face and gripped the gun behind his back tighter. 

“Hello, Dr Watson,” a woman on their doorstep greeted him. She was in her mid-thirties and dressed in jeans and a blazer. At a first glance, she seemed harmless, but John saw, that she held herself at the ready and clearly had an athletic build. She looked John over in a similar fashion: “I am Stella Hopkins from Europol. Mycroft Holmes sent me. I have orders to arrange your trip back to London.”

John hesitated for a moment. “How can I trust you?”

Stella grabbed an item that was leaning against the door frame and handed it to him: a garish red-golden umbrella with a black handle. ‘I would only give it to someone when I am sure to get it back,’ John recalled Mycroft’s words. He chuckled and relaxed. Now he had the responsibility of returning the umbrella.

John winked Stella into the living room. Sherlock stood beside the couch, still looking quite different with ginger hair, a cap and glasses. While they both gained some weight, they were still not back to their old frames. On a whim, John decided to keep one secret. “This is Ian,” he introduced Sherlock to Stella. Sherlock just raised an eyebrow and played along. “Nice to meet you”, he said with a Scottish accent. 

Stella retrieved a laptop from her bag and powered it up. She booked two plane tickets for the next day and promised to pick them up tomorrow morning. After that, she said her goodbyes and left again. The whole visit only lasted 15 minutes. John and Sherlock stood in the living room and stared at each other. Their adventure seemed be coming to an end. Both felt unsure what awaited them. So far, they had been living in their safe bubble.

John broke the silence. “Let's pack. It's time we get back to good old London.” 

Sherlock nodded and they moved into action. They were finished soon enough. There weren’t many clothes, but John encountered another problem. He had no idea what to do with his gun. He had no gun license, and he didn't want to get Greg into trouble, who gave him the gun in good faith. John saw no chance that he could smuggle it through airport security. He also didn’t trust Stella enough to just hand the gun over. He had used the gun to kill someone. In the worst case, it could be used to tie him to a murder. He wanted to avoid any connection between him and the bullet in 218C Baker Street. At midnight, he and Sherlock came to a decision. They went down to the river, strapped the gun to a heavy stone and let it sink.

The next morning they were woken by the alarm. Usually they slept in, but now they had to be ready when Stella picked them up. They enjoyed a generous breakfast and dressed in their disguises. John’s beard had grown impressively thick and the leather jacket gave an additional bulk to his frame. Sherlock still had red hair, but the roots were starting to show. Both donned baseball caps and checked their appearances. With all the visible differences in clothes and hair and Sherlock’s talent of impersonating people, they were highly unlikely to be recognised. 

Stella picked them up as promised and drove them to the Berlin airport. She accompanied them to the gate and almost in the plane. The business class tickets gave them the additional advantage of not having to wait unnecessarily in line. At the airports in Berlin and London nobody was interested in them and they were waved through all security checks with barely any consideration for their bags or passports. No one even batted an eye at the ugly umbrella, John held clutched in his hand. 

They arrived at Heathrow Airport at 2 pm. John was ecstatic to see London again. Despite the bad weather it felt good to be back. However Sherlock had gotten very still and had stared out of the window during the whole flight. 

Stella had briefed them, that there was a car waiting for them in the pick-up area. The driver already stood at the exit door for the arrivals, looking for John. After a short greeting he led them to a black car, stowed the bags in the trunk and ushered them in on the back seats. 

“Dr Watson,” the driver spoke once seated, “I will take you to Mr. Holmes first. He wants to be debriefed.” John just nodded. 

He felt Sherlock tensing up. “What’s the matter?” John asked.

“Nothing,” Sherlock mumbled. John raised an eyebrow. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I am just not ready to meet Mycroft. His superior speech about how he already had known and planned everything is something I am not looking forward to. And I don’t want to be blamed for the current crisis. It’s not, like I had a choice.” Sherlock sighed. 

“I don’t think he knows that you are alive,” John mused.

Sherlock scoffed. “He always knows everything - even if he didn’t, he will not admit it.” 

John grasped Sherlock's hand in support. The rest of the trip was spent in silence. After some time they arrived at an inconspicuous modern building. It seemed even Mycroft had to relocate his office from the Diogenes Club after the revelation of Mycroft's vast network. John had never been here before and even Sherlock looked surprised at the location. John squeezed Sherlock’s hand in reassurance before releasing it. They smiled at each other. John grabbed Mycroft’s umbrella and they exited the car. 

A man at the reception desk already awaited them. While John was greeted by name, Sherlock only got examined shortly. They were led to Mycroft’s study. The man knocked and after a few moments Mycroft’s voiced asked them in. The man held the door open for them and John entered first. Sherlock followed hesitantly, eyes downcast scanning his surrounding behind his baseball cap. 

Mycroft sat behind a huge desk, papers and files piled high around him. His posture screamed exhaustion. John couldn’t remember if he had ever seen Mycroft in such a state before. Usually the older Holmes always had an impeccable posture. Now Mycroft looked years older and his face was haggard. Stress and worry seemed to find people even in ‘minor positions of the British Government’.

Upon John entering, Mycroft looked up and smiled tiredly at him. When his eyes fell on the person behind him, Sherlock, he visibly paled. Despite Sherlock being still thin, red-haired, and with glasses, there was no doubt to Mycroft about his identity. Sherlock locked eyes with his brother and stilled in the entry. 

Mycroft blinked, two, three times. His facial features shifted from disbelief, to shock and then relief. After some moments where everyone had frozen in place, he rose from his chair and strode past John towards Sherlock. 

“Oh, brother...,” Mycroft whispered, and pulled Sherlock into an awkward hug. 

Sherlock was stunned at the beginning. He hadn’t expected an emotional reaction from Mycroft. Eventually he returned the embrace.

“Now, Mycroft. No need to become sentimental,” Sherlock chided softly, but with warmth. 

After some moments the siblings parted, both somewhat embarrassed. Mycroft cleared his throat, obviously moved.

“I assumed John needed to retrieve one of my old study buddies. How is this possible? How did you know, who to contact? Even Stella confirmed that she picked up a redhead.” John could see how Mycroft wasn’t able to combine the facts. He had never seen Mycroft so flustered. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “August 1989. Switzerland. Do you remember when Mummy made you take me with you to Lake Constance?”

Mycroft's eyes widened in disbelief and understanding. “You heard that? You remembered all that?”

“Well. It was quite memorable, when you all made a vow in speedos over some vodka to protect each other. Generally forgetting is hard for me,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft relaxed. “In this case: I am thankful for that.” He visibly gathered his wits, straightened his waistcoat and returned to his seat. “Gentlemen, we have much to discuss.”

John realized that the emotional part of the family reunion was over. He held up the umbrella, which he had carried since Berlin and put it on the desk. “Here Mycroft. Next time, give it to me, when it’s actually raining.”

“Thank you, Dr Watson. I assume your travels were uneventful - contrary to the happenings here,” Mycroft said. 

John just shrugged. He felt quite relaxed and his private mission to find Sherlock had been a striking success. 

“Let me bring you up to speed,” Mycroft resumed and offered them the chairs in front of his desk. As soon as everybody had been seated comfortably, Mycroft started to explain about the current investigations and the arrests. His Swiss contact had, as promised to Sherlock, relayed the complete list of Moriarty’s associates and moles to Mycroft. As usual in his business, he withheld his source. With that information, Mycroft and his allies were able to act. Anthea, for example, was currently taking care of the moles in Mycroft’s organisation. Lestrade had handled the police officers and judges in the UK.

Mycroft on the other hand dealt with the coordination of Operation Debugging in other countries, the re-manning of empty positions and securing evidence. He was also responsible for apprehending the more international and border-hopping conspirators in Britain. But despite all the successes, some problems remained. The most pressing was that they still hadn't captured Moriarty. Even they had no clue, where he was hiding. 

“I hate unfinished business,” Mycroft concluded. He looked at John and Sherlock. “What loose ends are there from your side?”

Sherlock gave Mycroft a brief summary of his time gathering the data about Moriarty's network and a shorter summary of his capture. He skipped the part where Irene rescued him; Mycroft clearly noticed the gap but didn't comment on it. 

After that, John gave a short account. He told Mycroft about the probably now smelling corpse of the sniper in 218C Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson staying with an old army buddy, the 'stolen' car and the gun in the Spree river in Berlin. 

Mycroft chuckled. “You could have kept the gun. Nobody would have cared.”

John looked confused. Mycroft picked up his umbrella, turned the handle, and pulled out a 20 inch blade. 

“I made sure that nobody would take closer look at you at the airports,” Mycroft explained. “Well, it doesn't matter anymore,” he pushed the blade back into the umbrella. “Back to the snipers - I think the danger here has passed.” He turned to Sherlock. “The three photographs on your mobile were the snipers put on John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson?”

Sherlock nodded. “I had gotten suspicious as soon as I started to see them more regularly around us. They had appeared in addition to the other gunmen, Moriarty had put on me. I wanted to get the photos to you for a background check. But I never got the chance.”

“Well, I’ve checked them now,” Mycroft said. “They were mercenaries. One sniper was found dead in an old castle locked away on the north-eastern border of the Czech Republic. His name was Harry Musgrave.” Mycroft pulled two photos from a folder and put them on the table for everyone to see. One was the photo Sherlock had made with his phone almost three months ago. 

Sherlock stared at it. “Now I understand why my captor was so familiar,” he mumbled. His senses must have been heavily clouded by fatigue then. Now he was able to make the connection between the sniper and his tormentor at once. “What happened?”

“I don't know. I was hoping you could tell me,” Mycroft said. 

Sherlock creased his forehead in concentration and inspected the second photo more thoroughly. A naked body, in a foetal position with mud and blood all over was depicted. His features softened as he connected the clues. “When I got rescued, my rescuer dropped something beside me. They probably killed Musgrave beforehand, undressed him and left him as a decoy. He could have passed as my twin, if somebody had checked on me.” 

“That explains something else,” Mycroft said. “The Czech forensic team found DNA and blood traces of you in the cell. I told them to redo the analysis. I thought them to be wrong.” Mycroft looked at Sherlock closer, clearly assessing Sherlock for injuries. 

Sherlock huffed. “I am fine. I have my doctor with me.”

Mycroft couldn't discern any obvious injuries and just nodded. He knew that Sherlock was resilient and detested any weakness of his body. He decided to trust John Watson's assessment of Sherlock's injuries and their treatment. Mycroft turned back to his folders and picked up another, thicker one. “The second sniper was found almost three weeks ago in an alley. As soon as his photo was uploaded on the NSY server, a Europol database confirmed him as Frank Bauer, a German sniper. Greg Lestrade could not make heads nor tails of it.”

“What has Lestrade to do with it?” Sherlock asked. 

“Lestrade was assigned to the case because it involved two bodies. Homicides. But he had no access to the Europol database to clarify the identity. His clearance wasn’t high enough,” Mycroft explained. 

Sherlock grabbed the case folder from Mycroft's hand and rifled through it. He stopped at the photo of the young man that was found with the sniper. “That's Nick,” Sherlock stated. “He sometimes helped me with cases; part of the homeless network. Clever guy.”

He took the photos of Nick, the sniper and the crime scene and distributed them on the desk. John and Mycroft kept silent, watching him while Sherlock inspected the photos thoroughly.

After a while, Sherlock straightened. “I think I know what happened,” he said, but didn’t elaborate further. 

“You want to protect someone,” Mycroft stated. Sherlock just looked at him. “Well, we keep this between ourselves. I will not incriminate anyone,” Mycroft promised.

Sherlock nodded. “Nick helped me with the fake suicide. He had the task to remove all evidence that pointed to the fact, that the jump wasn't fatal. He was also supposed to deliver my phone to John or Lestrade, if he found any safe chance to do so. He was probably seen by the sniper and therefore killed. See the marks on the hands of the sniper here? Nick must have struggled a lot, because the wire bit into the hands. And as revenge, Nick's lover probably killed the sniper. The wire is different; I bet it was a guitar string. I have seen strangulation marks like that before.”

“How do you know that it was his lover?” John asked. 

“Nick once told me, that he couldn't stay with his parents, because they pressured him into a conversion therapy. They are ultra conservative, and he, their only son, came out as gay. That's why he had run from home. He did well on his own. He fell in love in London, but his boyfriend wasn't well off either. They were both too old for social services, so they camped in an abandoned building, while trying to make a degree in an evening class. The boyfriend earns some money as a street musician. They were very close and seemed happy. I believe that counts as motive.” Sherlock sat back in his chair, clearly not happy about his deduction.

Mycroft turned back to the folders on his desk. He took a thin one and pulled out a photo. It was of the third sniper that Sherlock had photographed three months ago. 

“With your information, John, we can safely say, that the third sniper is taken care of, too. That is probably him.” Mycroft put the photo down in front of John. John took a look at the picture and nodded. 

Mycroft was satisfied. “I will send a team to retrieve the dead body from the apartment in 218C Baker Street. Our database could not match a name to his face, but -”

“Moran,” John interrupted. 

Mycroft and Sherlock looked at him in astonishment. They both kept silent.

“What?” John asked puzzled. 

“Sebastian Moran?” Sherlock clarified. 

“Yeah, why?”

Mycroft chuckled. “Well, then I must congratulate you. You took care of one of the most wanted killers. The bounties on his head are huge. Almost every western government including some from the Middle East want him dead. There was never a photo nor DNA traces of him. But he has a distinctive custom-made rifle and ammunition. More than 50 kills are ascribed to him.”

John just shrugged. “Well. He is dead, you are welcome. The rifle is in the bolt hole, if you need it.”

“That's one of my other problems solved,” Mycroft said relieved. “I had Moran on my to-do list for a long time. He had made my work and that of many other governments very difficult.” 

Mycroft closed the folder full of verve and leaned back in his chair. “I think, we are done for today. You should stay at my place. Baker Street needs to be swept first, and I would feel safer, when we have an update on Moriarty's whereabouts. Security at my house is adequate. DI Lestrade is also stopping by later to give me an update on the developments regarding the investigations. That might be interesting, too. And in case we forget: Sherlock, you are officially still dead.” 

John nodded. “What about Mrs Hudson? I think there is no need, to keep her hidden anymore.”

“I could send somebody to check up on her if you want. But as long as you can't go back to Baker Street, I would keep her where she is now,” Mycroft said. John knew that Mycroft was right. He would just try to get hold of Matt later on and send a short update to Mrs Hudson. She should know that she had been right with her assumption, and Sherlock really was alive. 

Sherlock and John left the office. Mycroft still had some work to do and stayed. He watched them leave. They didn't bother with personal space anymore he noted. Not that there was a lot in the past, but they now acted more like one unit than ever. Mycroft just shrugged and returned his attention to his files.


	11. And yet the menace of the years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plot, lemons, reunions.... Same as always :-)

The car had waited for them and now drove them to Mycroft’s house. John had never visited Mycroft before. Upon seeing his mansion his step faltered in awe. Sherlock was unimpressed. Sometimes John wondered how rich the Holmes family was, and if Sherlock had access to the money or if Mycroft just earned a lot from his job. John had always struggled with money. His family never had much, and during his time in the Army he had sent most of his pay home to support Harry and his mother till she died. 

A butler opened the door for them. He didn’t bat an eye and just led them into the house. Mycroft must have informed him of their arrival. There wasn’t a lot for John and Sherlock to do and they went to the kitchen to raid the fridge. They opened a bottle of wine to celebrate their return to London and snacked on the kitchen counter. The butler at first tried to be helpful, but then let them be. They both felt in a state of flux. 

A bottle of wine later, when the sun had already set, the doorbell chimed. Through the corridor, they could hear the familiar voice of Lestrade greeting the butler. It became obvious, that he had been a regular guest in the last few days. The butler didn't even bother with him after he closed the door. Greg entered the kitchen like he owned the place.

He dumped his keys, wallet and jacket onto one of the kitchen chairs. Only then he noticed John leaning at the kitchen counter. John just waved a short hello, munching on a sandwich. At a second glance Greg noticed another person behind the opened fridge door riffling through its content.

Greg stilled. He would have recognised the familiar frame of Sherlock anywhere. “Oh my God,” he whispered. He cast a nervous glance toward John to confirm what he saw, afraid that the long hours at the Yard had made him see ghosts. John just nodded with a small smile on his lips. 

Greg strode towards Sherlock and pulled him away from the fridge. “You bastard,” he grinned and embraced him in a tight hug. “You crazy, crazy bastard,” Lestrade prattled, hugging him even tighter. 

Sherlock first seemed a little bit helpless and overwhelmed. “Umm…” he stuttered and patted Greg’s back awkwardly. 

Greg pulled back and just grinned at him. “I am glad, that you are back. But you have a lot of explaining to do!”

“It is good to be back,” Sherlock said seriously. He hadn't expected to be missed and furthermore to be welcomed home with such warmth. The hugs of his brother and Lestrade had left a joyful feeling inside him. People usually didn't touch him. 

They settled around the kitchen table, snacking away on food from the fridge and brought each other up to speed. The mood was light. After John and Sherlock recounted their adventures, Greg was proud to report on the big progresses they had made so far in the current investigations. He gleefully told a story of how Anderson first tried to protect the superintendent of the drugs division from being arrested, but Sally just marched over him anyway. No love was shared between them anymore. 

Greg also let slip that he currently stayed in one of Mycroft’s guestrooms. Since his impending divorce and the discovery of the surveillance on him, he had no safe place to stay. There was no time to go apartment hunting with his current workload and it turned out that this arrangement was quite convenient for coordinating plans with Mycroft. In addition, Greg knew where Mycroft had hidden the good wine and he now went to fetch some from the cellar. 

Later in the evening, Mycroft joined them as well. He could confirm now that all arrests and investigations had been processed and that every person on the list that Sherlock had procured had been detained - except one. 

There was an Arab prince that enjoyed diplomatic immunity and had to be released from his detention ten days ago. A proper arrest had not been possible. The prince had gone straight to the press and had the gall to brag about his unjust treatment and had threatened to sue the government. Mycroft had some evidence that the prince funded Moriarty's operations but it wasn’t enough to remove his diplomatic status. There were even more lawsuits against him, that couldn't be processed: He was a suspect in an investigation regarding a murdered escort. She had been found strangled in the prince’s hotel bed four weeks ago. Some drugs seemed to play a part in that, too. 

Mycroft had even contacted the family of the Arab prince. The good news was that they weren’t supportive of their stray family member. But they were also helpless. The prince had fled the country because he had wanted to duck out of some duties that he had had to fulfil as part of the ruling family. He was now milking the family's funds and his status as a diplomat. Any further official action from Mycroft against him would lead to a diplomatic incident, because in a formal capacity, the family could not accept a prosecution against one of its members in another country. But on the other hand, the family had no way, to transport the Prince back home. It would lead to an open quarrel that could destabilize the reign of the current king. Mycroft was at his wit’s end.

Greg was also visibly frustrated. He was a man with high morals, and he hated the rich and mighty that could escape prosecution with diplomatic immunity. “Sometimes I wish, we were in a Bond movie and we just could deport or execute those guys,” he snarled. 

Mycroft and Sherlock stilled. They looked into each other’s eyes. Mycroft lifted one eyebrow. “It could work,” he said after a moment of silence. 

Sherlock nodded. “Quite elegantly. The corpse might be a bit old though.”

“I'll get a fresh one,” Mycroft said, “it shouldn't be much of a problem.”

“What?” John spoke, watching the brothers. 

Greg rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “I think I don't want to hear anything about it. I will go to bed now. I want to be an upstanding police officer and it is probably better if I can convincingly deny everything.”

Mycroft smiled, trying to appease him. “Greg, don't worry. Your involvement is not needed. You are right and you should retire now. The usual guest room is made up.”

Greg nodded his thanks to Mycroft and said good night. He grabbed his wallet and keys and left the kitchen. The remaining men listened to his retreating steps on the staircase and the closing click of a door. 

After that, John repeated: “What?”

“Dr Watson,” Mycroft started, “as far as I remember, you are a quite decent marksman. Do you know how to operate a sniper rifle?”

John suddenly understood what plan had just been hatched between the brothers without words. He felt no aversion against it. Desperate times called for desperate measures. 

“I only have one question: Why do you need fresh corpse?” he asked confused.

With that Sherlock explained how they could interfere with Moriarty's plans once more. 

Around midnight, they went to bed. Mycroft went upstairs to the master bedroom. His steps were heavy and communicated the fatigue of the originator. 

Sherlock knew his way around in Mycroft's mansion and tugged John along. He used to stay with Mycroft after his first two rehabs. Despite the rivalry the brothers displayed, they once had lived together for more than a year. Sherlock had occupied one of the guest rooms on the ground level toward the garden. Since his last and longest stint of drugs, he never had returned to stay at Mycroft’s again. He had hated the supervision. He had preferred to rent an apartment in Montague Street. But he knew that his brother had always kept his old room ready for him since then. It was his way of showing support and brotherly love. Sherlock never knew, how he should respond to that but felt oddly reassured by that gesture. 

Sherlock led John with certainty toward his room. Before entering, he stopped, unsure. 

He turned towards John. “John, if you want your own room, now that we are back in London, I understand -” 

“Do you want to be alone, Sherlock?” John interrupted him.

“No, I just -”

John smiled, took Sherlock's hand, and silenced him with a kiss. He opened the door and pushed Sherlock through. 

Mycroft’s mansion was big and had many guest rooms, but if anybody noticed that Sherlock and John shared one room, nobody commented on it. Like in the safe house they fooled around, snuggled together and slept like logs.

The next morning, John and Sherlock slept in. They had breakfast and then got picked up by one of Mycroft’s drivers. Like they had planned yesterday, John retrieved the sniper rifle and the bullets from John's bolt hole. After that, the driver dropped them off at a private shooting range in the outskirts of London. They were the only guests there. 

John and Sherlock had three days to prepare for a sniper shot over roughly 900 meters. John’s task was to master the rifle. Sherlock assisted him with adjusting the aim and provide information about distances, angles and weather conditions. They had to make sure, that the bullet hit its target. Sherlock frantically scribbled calculations and diagrams in a notebook after every try. John made shot after shot, getting acquainted with the rifle. At the end of the third day John was able to hit the target with an accuracy of more than 95 percent. They felt confident, that their plan was going to work. 

On late Thursday afternoon, they got the go ahead from Mycroft. They had spent the whole day in nervous anticipation. 

A black van dropped them in front of an office tower. They entered the building under the disguise of cleaners. Their outfit consisted of an overall, latex gloves and baseball caps. They were equipped with a cart that held cleaning supplies. The trunk with the rifle was stowed in the cart and concealed beneath bottles, disposable towels and trash bags. 

They went up to the 30th floor which was currently being refurbished. Plastic sheets hung from the ceiling and covered most of the abandoned desks and chairs. Mycroft had chosen this specific setting, because he knew that the refurbishment had been halted due to payment issues with the contracted company. Therefore, no workmen would show up today. The floor was deserted. 

Sherlock inspected the view out of the office windows. After some minutes he decided on one and opened it. He pushed a sturdy desk toward the window and helped John to mount the rifle. 

John got comfortable behind the rifle and started to aim. He had a perfect line of sight toward a hotel with big balconies. Sherlock took out his equipment to gather the necessary data for calculating the shot. 

After thirty minutes of waiting, a balcony door on the upper levels opened and two people came into view. John recognized the Arab prince immediately. He had been featured in the news often enough. A woman with way too flimsy clothes accompanied him. At first glance she looked like an escort. But John knew better: it was Anthea. Despite the blond wig she was clearly recognisable to John. She shivered and stepped back inside the hotel room. There she moved over to a closed balcony window door to keep warm, but she stayed in view of the prince. 

The prince stepped further on the balcony toward the handrail, put a cigarette into his mouth and flicked open his lighter. He lit it and grinned at Anthea. Even with the distance separating them, John could see that the prince had some very lewd thoughts about what he wanted to do to her later. The prince took a deep pull and then turned back to look over the city beneath him. 

Sherlock rechecked his calculations for a last time and instructed John where to aim. 

John took a deep breath. Calmness settled over him. His senses focussed on the target. He took aim and pulled the trigger. A short moment later the prince’s head exploded. The door behind the prince shattered to pieces. Blood splattered onto the balcony and the windows. John kept his aim on the balcony and focussed on Anthea, who had been safe behind the other windows. She looked at the prince and then directly toward John’s direction. John knew that she couldn’t see him in the distance but she knew where they were. Anthea smiled and nodded. Then she vanished into the darkness of the room, smartphone in hand and already sending out messages. 

John straightened up and grinned at Sherlock. They dismounted the rifle, wiped all surfaces they had touched and left the building. The van picked them and their equipment up and drove away into the loud and bustling rush hour of London toward Mycroft’s office. There they handed the rifle over at to a serious looking man in a dark suit. They disposed of their disguise and redressed in their own clothes. Their part was done and they went back to Mycroft’s mansion. 

John and Sherlock were high on adrenaline. They giggled almost the whole way back. John felt elated. He had just shot a man, but he didn't feel bad about it. It was similar to the situation two years ago with the cabbie. The prince had been a bad man and he deserved it. And hell, John made a sniper rifle shot worth that of a professional gunman. 

When they entered the mansion, Sherlock pulled him along to their bedroom. Before he could open the door, John shoved him against it and kissed him urgently. Their arousals were obvious through several layers of pants and trousers. John was on fire. He knew what he wanted, but he felt unsure. His breathing was heavy and his hands roamed over Sherlock's body. 

Against Sherlock's lips John whispered frantically: “Sherlock, I need you. I don't know if you are amenable, but I want to fuck. I have never done this, but I need -” John stilled against Sherlock and buried his face in Sherlock's neck. He trembled.

Sherlock hugged him close. He raised his hands to John's neck and encouraged him to look into his eyes. 

“John,” he said, “everything is okay. Stop being worried or ashamed. I want you, too.” To prove his point, Sherlock pressed his hips into John's arousal, John could only groan. The friction was exquisite.

Sherlock grasped the door handle and led them in the bedroom. He kissed John deeply and guided him toward the bed. The frantic groping from moments ago slowed to sweet caresses. They undressed slowly. The clothes piled around them on the floor and they climbed onto the bed. Every bit of exposed skin needed to be kissed and touched. This at least was familiar territory now. They had been worshipping each other since their first days in Berlin. 

After long moments of sensual explorations, Sherlock broke away from John and leaned over to the bedside table. “Please, let Mycroft be his usual meddling and manipulating arse...” he murmured. Sherlock opened the drawer and inspected the content. He grinned at John and pulled out a tube of lube and some condoms.

“How do you want to do this?” Sherlock asked. 

John felt his cheeks flushing. He was nervous, but also incredibly aroused. “Fuck me,” he whispered blushing.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock teased. “Don't you want to fuck me into the mattress?” he whispered, “Hear me begging for more, to take me harder, faster?” Sherlock’s voice dropped to a deep baritone, encouraging John to imagine everything. 

John knew that his cheeks were burning a deep scarlet. Sherlock had conjured up a fantasy that John had denied himself so far. He took a steadying breath and looked into Sherlock's eyes. Mischief was twinkling there. The nervousness vanished from John. “Later,” John said. “But first, I want you on top. I am curious. Show me,” he whispered pleadingly. The mood shifted. Both felt the desperate need for more. 

Sherlock swallowed at the sudden increase in intimacy. He planted a reverent kiss on John's lip. “I'll take care of you,” he promised. 

John would have never described his sexual encounters with women as boring, but the foreplay Sherlock engaged him in made all his previous experiences pale in comparison. He was hot, sweaty and incredibly turned on. Sherlock kept him on the edge and prepared him thoroughly. When he felt Sherlock entering him, he was desperate and calm at the same time. Desperate for more, but calm, because he knew he was safe. His orgasm crept up on him and took him to a serenity he had never known before. Seconds later Sherlock collapsed on top of him. They both needed some minutes to catch their breath and calm down. 

John observed Sherlock basking in the afterglow. The pale skin was flushed and his face was relaxed. His eyes were closed and a tear was stuck in his eyelashes. Sherlock opened his eyes; they were glassy and a little bit red-rimmed. 

“Are you okay?” John asked concerned. 

Sherlock chuckled. “I should be the one asking you that.” He sobered. “I am okay - more than okay. Everything is perfect.” A serene smile settled on his face. “You?”

John returned the smile. “Never been better.” And it was true. He was deeply relaxed. His mind was quiet. The lingering anxiety regarding his sexuality was gone. He was sticky, boneless and mellow and it felt good.

After some minutes John and Sherlock trotted to the bathroom for a quick shower. It lasted longer than expected, because showering together had its own perks. They had nothing to do, so they just cuddled on the bed naked afterwards. When they heard Greg entering the mansion, they redressed and joined him for dinner. 

Later that evening, the news on the telly reported the assassination of the Arab prince. Very soon the name of Sebastian Moran was brought up by the reporters. The morning after, a man walking a dog reported a parked vehicle near the M4. A dead man was seated behind the wheel. The police had inspected the car and a sniper rifle had been found in the trunk. Later on, a preliminary autopsy report confirmed that the rifle had been used for the assassination of the Prince. Therefore the conclusion was drawn: the dead man in the car was Sebastian Moran. It seemed he had died of an intracranial aneurysm. 

Of course, John and Sherlock knew better. The corpse of the real Sebastian Moran had been cremated two days ago. Instead of him the next available male corpse without family ties and within an acceptable age range was set up to pose as Moran. With no previous photos or DNA samples nobody would be able to contradict his identity. John sometimes wondered, if it really was that easy to procure corpses, or if Sherlock and Mycroft just had a knack for it. 

In the end everything had gone according to plan. 

**Somewhere in London**

Moriarty was furious - all his careful planning had been for nothing. His painstakingly groomed and selected supporters had become useless. He didn’t know where he had made a mistake, but something had gone horribly wrong. First: his network was crumbling. Second: Sherlock Homes was still alive. Third: Sherlock's friends were still alive. 

He couldn’t do anything about the first issue. But the other two would be corrected. He still had some resources left. At the moment, he would just have to wait for a little bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are appreciated.


	12. Finds, and shall find, me unafraid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final act starts....

They spent the following weekend at Mycroft's mansion. After all the arrests and the demise of the prince, even Mycroft and Lestrade had to relax a little bit. To keep them in the loop however, officers and agents dropped by at any time. One evening Anthea stopped by to report on the events regarding the prince. Moriarty however seemed to have vanished. With no leads nothing could be done at the moment. 

Sherlock would have preferred more privacy at Mycroft’s, but with all the loneliness he had endured in the last months he somewhat basked in the company. He discussed cases with Lestrade and bickered with Mycroft. John was a constant and calming presence at his side, available for a kiss or a short cuddle. The evenings ended with good food, lots of wine and laughter. Sherlock and John spent their short nights together, but they weren’t able to recreate the lazy times of the safe house. They missed their home - Baker Street. 

They were ready to go back on Monday around lunch time. Without any clues about the whereabouts of Moriarty, they could either stay in hiding endlessly or just return to Baker Street. Moriarty no longer had his web, so perhaps he had gone into hiding. Mycroft had taken care of all foreign surveillance on their apartment. He also had proposed a security detail, but John and Sherlock declined. The usual more than standard surveillance over CCTV seemed enough. They wanted their privacy back. 

Sherlock had not been declared alive again yet, but a press release was scheduled in three days. In the evening they would also be reunited with Mrs. Hudson again. Matt, John’s army mate, had her hidden away at his aunt's in Plymouth. It had turned out to be more of a vacation for Mrs Hudson. She had spent her time with Marjorie in a little cottage, drinking tea, taking the dogs for a walk and baking cakes for the local nursing home. The evenings had been filled with Doctor Who DVDs and EastEnders.

It felt strange for John, to return to Baker Street after more than three weeks. When he had left, it was originally to quickly answer Greg's call. He had never imagined that he wouldn't return for such a long time. John was a little bit afraid of what the apartment would look like. However Mycroft’s men had taken care of the perishable goods in the fridge and thoroughly cleaned the flat. They had also extended the courtesy to Mrs Hudson’s lodgings. On the other hand, Mycroft's minions had probably searched through their belongings for bugs until no piece of privacy was left. A clean flat was at least a little bit of compensation. 

Sherlock and John entered the apartment as they had done a thousand times before. But as soon as they had entered the living room they stopped, grinning at each other. They were back.

First, John put his coat on the hanger and went to the kitchen to make tea. Some routines were hard to break. 

Sherlock looked more forlorn. He just stood in the entry of the flat and took everything in. John understood that Sherlock had probably given up on ever returning to 221B Baker Street at one point. There were some minor changes in the living room. John had put away the violin, for example, because it had broken his heart to see it every day. Also, a lot of Sherlock’s ongoing experiments no longer existed. He knew that he didn’t need to explain that. Sherlock probably understood, what had happened. Therefore John didn't comment and just let Sherlock be. 

When the kettle whistled, Sherlock shook himself from his stupor and determination settled on his face. He strode into his bedroom. John could hear the doors of the wardrobe banging. He was glad now, that he never had the nerve to put Sherlock's stuff away. Then he heard Sherlock retreating to the bathroom and sounds of the shower running filled the room. John settled in his chair, tea in one hand and flipping through his mailings – mostly bills and advertising. After 20 minutes Sherlock emerged again. His hair was still ginger, but the dark roots were showing significantly. However most of the old Sherlock was back: bespoke suit trousers, a tight blue shirt, black shoes and a dressing gown. The best thing in John’s eyes was that the clothes almost fit perfectly. All the additional food had been good for him. John had taken great care to feed Sherlock up again. 

Sherlock stepped toward the mirror over the fireplace. After taking stock of his appearance, he shrugged off his gown, dashed into his bedroom again and returned in a suit jacket. 

“I'm going to the hairdresser,” he announced. He donned his coat and scarf, bent down to give John a short kiss on the lips and dashed out of the front door. 

John just chuckled. He felt at home again. It was even better. He now not only lived with a flatmate and friend here, but also with a boyfriend. 

John enjoyed his tea, the silence and the comfort of his chair. All was back like it used to be. And that was more, than he had ever dared to dream of. With all the excitement gone, he nodded off. 

John startled awake again when his mobile chimed. He had gotten it back this morning. Greg had it debugged and wiped it of potential spy software. Two hours had gone by. Sherlock hadn’t returned yet. But his sessions at the hairdresser always took some time – especially now, if Sherlock wanted his hair dyed back to black. 

John opened the text message. 

‘Hi John, could you stop by at NSY, asap. Need your help,’ he read. The sender was Greg Lestrade. 

‘Do you need Sherlock, too? He is not here at the moment’, he texted back.

‘No. Just you,’ came the immediate answer.

John huffed out a breath. No rest for the wicked. He gathered his leather jacket – John no longer thought of it as the sniper's jacket - and left for New Scotland Yarc. In his hurry, he overlooked the cab that had just stopped outside of Baker Street and Molly stepping out. He turned at the corner and entered a small alley. He realized to late that he wasn't alone in the usually abandoned street. Before he could react, he felt the impact of something blunt on his head. Everything went dark and he slumped to the ground. 

Slowly John regained his consciousness. The smell of mouldiness hit his nostrils. His hands felt numb and his head felt dizzy. He lay on the floor with his hands cuffed behind his back, and his feet were bound with tape. Coldness was seeping into his bones. His jacket was missing. Beside him, he heard a pained groan. He rolled over to get a better view. Beside him was Greg Lestrade, likewise bound. Mrs. Hudson sat slumped on a wooden chair, unconscious and also handcuffed. But mercifully she hadn't been dropped to the cold, hard ground.

John tried to sit up. He mustered Greg up. He had a small laceration on his forehead, but the blood had already congealed. Mrs Hudson seemed unharmed. Greg jerked awake. 

“Hi Greg. Welcome back,” John said encouraging. Greg just groaned a little bit more and blinked.

“What happened?” Greg asked. His tried to find a focus point in the semi-darkness.

“I don't know.” John said. “But if I had to guess: Moriarty.” 

Martha Hudson also startled wake up. She blinked slowly and straightened in the chair. Her eyes cast around and rested on John. 

“I am so sorry,” Mrs Hudson started weakly. “I should have suspected that the man who picked me up wasn’t a proper police officer. I should have asked for the code word.”

“It’s not your fault,” John soothed her. “Moriarty is the only one to blame. Are you hurt?”

Martha Hudson shook her head. 

“What happened to you?” John asked Greg.

“I was grabbed at the underground parking at NSY. I thought I was safe using that entrance,” Greg said. He stilled. After a second, he continued. “I bet you: there is still some surveillance left, otherwise I can’t explain how Moriarty still knows our moves. He got us all in one sweep.” Greg tried in vain, to push off his handcuffs. A frustrated curse escaped him. 

John was silent. He was angry at himself for letting his guard down. While he tried to wiggle out of the handcuffs, he took stock of his surroundings. Everything was damp and the emergency lights cast eerie shadows around the room. The room was big and the ceiling was more than 10 meters above them. There was a door to his left. It was an air lock but John saw no possibility of opening it from the inside. On the ceiling was a small maintenance hatch, also closed.

“A flooding chamber of the Thames Embankments,” Greg said, interrupting his survey. “I once had some counter terrorism training in here, but I don’t know –,” the opening of the hatch above them interrupted him. 

Moriarty’s head and upper body came in view. He wore John's leather jacket and carried a gun. “Hi there, friends of Sherlock,” he began, chewing some gum. “We still have some unfinished business.”

“Moriarty, you bastard,” John yelled at him. 

Moriarty just grinned and continued. “John, John, John, you naughty boy. You killed Sebastian, my most loyal man. Haven't taken you for someone to collect trophies. I took the freedom to retrieve Sebastian’s jacket. It's vintage, you know. I bought it for him,” he purred. “But back to business. Because our dear detective refused to die in the first place, I now need to kill you - a deal is a deal.” He grinned insanely. “So sorry,” he whispered. “And don’t worry. I will take care, that Sherlock mourns you – but not for long.” With that, Moriarty vanished and bolted the hatch shut. 

John looked at Greg, exasperated. Some seconds later, a screeching noise could be heard and inlets in the wall opened. Water slowly streamed in. From a documentary, John knew how the system worked. When there was a risk of flooding, the inlets could be activated per remote control. The system helped too take the pressures from the dams. In case of high tide or flooding, there was pressure on the inlets and the water would pour in. The room would be filled in 20 to 30 minutes. The water level would rise and eventually would drown them. In a best case scenario, they would be flushed upwards and get blose enough to the hatch to escape, but in February, the Thames was freezing cold. They would probably die of hypothermia first. 

John struggled to stand up. They needed to keep dry and contain body heat. He cursed himself that he had never asked Sherlock how to get out of handcuffs. Sherlock was fascinated by them and there was always a pair laying about at Baker Street. It was a hobby of his to unlock them. 

Out of the corners of his eyes he saw Mrs Hudson standing up and bending down to unbound her legs. 

John was speechless. “Mrs Hudson, how...”

“John,” she said, waiving around a hair pin. “I was the wife of a drug lord. You need a certain skill set for that.”

She stepped toward Greg and undid his cuffs within seconds. Then she took care of John's. Both men tore the tape from their legs. The floor was already completely covered with water. John rushed to the entrance and tried to open the door. But it was looked as expected. 

“Let's get on the chair; it might buy us some time.” John instructed. All three stepped on the chair and watched the water rising. 

“Any other ideas?” Greg asked. 

“Not one so far,” John said. He cursed himself a fool for thinking that the game had been over. Worry was settling in his gut. Sherlock would be next on Moriarty's list and he was in no position to warn or help his partner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to speed up my posting and finish the story - RL gets busy. So sorry for any errors.


	13. It matters not how strait the gate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The big bad appears....

**A little bit earlier...**

Molly arrived at Baker Street after her shift at St. Bart’s. She had collected so much overtime that she decided to splurge some of it to visit John and Sherlock. They had called her yesterday and told her about their homecoming. She was relieved that everything had worked out: Sherlock was back and Moriarty’s web was destroyed. The game was over. 

Molly also wanted to return the Taser to John. She had been startled when a woman in ragged clothes had approached her in front of the hospital and had given her a badly wrapped package almost two weeks ago. John had told her via a message in the forum, that she would receive a package, but he hadn’t specified how. She had been grateful, that he wanted her to have a mode of protection but she wasn't really comfortable with carrying a weapon. And now with everything over, she had no need for it any more. 

Molly paid the cabbie, exited the car and turned toward the entrance door of 221B Baker Street. The moment she stepped on the pavement, she saw the familiar figure of John hurrying around a corner into a back alley. She wanted to run after him, when a tall, bulky man jumped out of a black van and followed John into the alley. 

Molly stopped in her tracks. The van faced away from her and she couldn’t see the driver, but the motor of the vehicle was still running. This seemed off. She crouched behind a parking car and watched. Some seconds later the tall man stepped out of the alley again. John was slumped against him and dragged toward the van. The sliding door opened on the left side and John was carelessly dumped in. The man jumped in with him and pulled the door close. The van was already accelerating before the door clicked shut. 

Molly stepped onto the street. She stopped the next cab coming toward her and climbed in. 

“Follow the van, please” she instructed. Her heart was beating too fast and her palms had gotten clammy. The cabbie just nodded and sped up. The van had had to stop at a red light further down the road and was therefore still within line of sight. The indicator blinked for a turn to the right. 

Molly fished out her mobile from her handbag. Her hands froze. She had no valid number of Sherlock's anymore. She didn’t want to call the general police hotline, because she had no way of explaining the urgency or the seriousness of the kidnapping. She scrolled through her contacts. Greg Lestrade was the best option to call. The voicemail sounded over the phone on the first ring. Molly swore and hung up. She retried but got the same result, but she left a short message. 

This however wouldn’t be enough. Molly needed support now. She scrolled through her contacts. Beside Greg, she only had worked with Sally Donovan. Perhaps she was able to help her. She pressed the dial button. 

After three rings, Sally's voice greeted her. “Hi Molly, what's up?”

“Hi Sally. John just got kidnapped,” Molly explained without preamble. “He was thrown in a van and I am currently following him in a cab. What should I do?” 

After a short pause, Sally answered. “Try to keep near the van. Get me the licence plate. I will also trace your mobile. I will inform Lestrade.” Molly heard Sally dialling in the background. 

“I already tried to call him. Only the voicemail answered. I can’t read the plate, they are too far away.” Molly squinted from the back seat of the cab to the, but there were to many cars between them. 

“Can’t read it either,” the cab driver spoke. Molly just nodded at him. 

“I can’t get Greg either,” Sally spoke again. “I have the signal of your phone however. I will dispatch some officers now and I will join them as soon as I can. How many people are in the van?” she asked. 

“I think, it's John, the guy who grabbed him and a driver,” Molly said.

“Is one of them Moriarty?” Sally asked. 

“I don’t know,” Molly answered. So far, she hadn’t thought about that option. She had tried to block any thoughts about Moriarty after the horrible dating episode. So far, she hadn’t met him again. 

“Okay,” Sally’s voice pulled her back into the present. “Keep following the van until they stop. Then get away to safety. You can leave your phone there if you need to get away so we can track it. Don't try to do anything heroic.” 

The cabbie followed the van to the outskirts of London. Her driver was clever enough to recognize the seriousness of the situation. He did everything to stay close enough to the van but not be obvious about it. The trip took longer than expected. Somewhere along the road, she was able to get a peek at the licence plate. After a short search by Sally, she confirmed it was a rented car. Sally informed Molly that she was now on her way with some officers to her location. She was able to call in a helicopter, but she now had to cut the phone call short. 

After twenty minutes, the van turned left on a small road that was closed to the public. They had arrived at a rundown industrial area by the Thames that had its prime shortly after the Second World War. Now according to the improvised company signs only some import-export business had remained. Some shabby cars lined the streets. 

The cabbie came to a halt at the private road. “I can't go in there, Ma'am, or I'll lose my licence.” He turned toward Molly and waited for instructions. 

Molly just nodded. “Could you park somewhere nearby?” 

The cabbie looked around and spotted a small parking space between two cars further down the road. He slowly pulled up and parked. 

Molly turned around to keep the entrance of the street in view. She grew restless. The van was long out of sight and but she was too afraid to follow on foot. 

Molly waited with the cabbie. She fiddled with her phone. After five minutes the van returned. Only one person was in the front. Molly recognized instantly who the driver was: Jim Moriarty. Her blood ran cold. In haste she ducked below the window and hid between the seats. The van drove back the way they had come. Molly was unsure. Was John still in the van? Or was it only Moriarty?

Molly stilled her phone and redialled Sally. Only the voicemail answered. While it rattled down Sally’s greeting, she quickly formed a plan. She left a short message, slipped out of the car, and threw her mobile down the road as far as she could. She hoped Sally would understand the hint. She ran back to the cabbie. “Follow the van again,” she instructed the cabbie. 

“I feel like I'm in a Bond movie,” he said, but he did as told.

“Believe me, I would prefer a rom-com,” Molly said. They drove back toward the city centre. Molly was unsure what to do now. If she still had her phone she would have tried to call Sally again.

“Can I borrow your phone?” she finally asked the cabbie after coming to a decision. She didn’t know Sally’s number by heart, but she had to make an effort to inform the police. 

“Usually I would say no, but after all this, I make an exception.” the cabbie unlocked his phone and handed it to her. Molly dialled 999. There were no options left. She had to explain the whole situation to some operator. The problem was that even she didn’t know exactly what was going on. 

She painstakingly retold the woman on the other line everything what happened so far. But unfortunately she couldn’t tell her what kind of help she needed and where. 

While arguing with the phone operator, she suddenly realized where they were heading: St. Bart's. They observed how the van came to a stop in the towing zone in front of the hospital entrance.

Molly's driver stopped in the parking zone for cabs 50 yards away, where she had a perfect view of the van. Moriarty exited the van and strode into the hospital like he owned the place. Through the glass doors, Molly could see that he stopped in front of the elevators. She had a sinking feeling that she knew where Moriarty was heading. 

“Bart’s hospital, the roof. Please send someone,” Molly said to the operator and cut the connection. 

“How much do I owe you?” Molly asked the cab driver in a hurry.

The cab driver looked at the meter. A horrendous amount had accumulated. 

Molly grabbed her handbag, rummaged through some tissues, lipstick, hairpins and the taser and finally just threw her purse hat the cab driver. With a breathless “sorry,” she exited the cab and hurried to the entrance of St. Bart’s. She almost crashed into the sliding doors which were slightly too slow for her speed. Knowing the hospital intimately she went to the staircase and ran up to the upper most floors. Her lungs burned and her heart was racing. When she reached the entrance door to the roof, she stopped for a second to catch her breath. Sweat was collecting on her forehead and back. 

After a few moments, she took her handbag and retrieved the taser. Despite her misgivings it had been a constant companion these last few days and now she was happy to have carried it around all the time. It could be useful now. The wise choice would be, to wait for the police, but she knew, that Moriarty was dangerous and every minute was important. 

She silently pushed the door open and peeked through the resulting gap. She couldn't see anything, but voices carried over to her position. She slid through the door and closed it silently.

“You were quite the opponent,” she heard Moriarty's voice. “Even more entertaining than I first thought. But now you fell for a faked message from Lestrade. I thought you were cleverer.”

Molly peeked around the corner. Sherlock stood on the mortar banister of the roof. His curly black hair and the trademark coat were billowing in the wind. His hands were raised to appease Moriarty who held a gun pointed at Sherlock. Moriarty's back was towards Molly. 

“Now we do this again. You jump, for real this time. I want to see you dead,” Moriarty said.

Sherlock mustered Moriarty up. Molly could see that he wanted to play for time. “That is John's jacket,” Sherlock stated. 

“His jacket?” Moriarty spat viciously. “It was Sebastian's. Don’t you see, it's a vintage. Your pet just took it. He didn't deserve it. But he got what he actually deserved. In fact, I already took care of all of your friends.”

Sherlock visibly paled. “What did you do with them?” he asked.

“Well, they drowned some minutes ago in the Thames. Or so it will appear. They will be found along the river banks soon.” Moriarty’s features distorted into a malicious grin. “Not original, but effective nonetheless.”

Sherlock swayed dangerously on the ledge. He blinked in disbelief, casting his eyes around, helpless. His eyes always landed again on the gun, clearly calculating the chances of Moriarty firing it. Molly felt helpless. She couldn’t risk firing the taser at Moriarty. The muscle spasms might trigger the gun and kill Sherlock. 

“Oh Sherlock, don’t be sad. Every game must end.” Moriarty said. The gun was still steady on him. 

Molly knew time was running out. She gathered all her courage and took a small step out of her hiding place, so that Sherlock could spot her. The small movement was enough. If Molly hadn't seen it with her own eyes, she wouldn't have known, that Sherlock had acknowledged her. Sherlock quickly returned his gaze to Moriarty, to not reveal Molly's position. 

Sherlock straighten up, ready to engage Moriarty once more. “No choice for me then, this time?” There was defiance in his voice. 

“You haven't earned a choice. On the contrary: you need to be punished.” Moriarty’s voice rose. “You destroyed my legacy. My whole network is gone. You forced me to do all this. And this time, I will watch you jump. I will tell you, what you have to do. No escape this time,” he spat. 

“What if I pull another magic trick?” Sherlock goaded. 

Moriarty stepped closer, curiosity in his eyes. “How did you do it? How did you survive the jump?”

Sherlock smiled. “I had something at my disposal you obviously missed,” Sherlock said. “I did something that the great Moriarty missed.”

“I don’t miss things. I am able to see everything,” Moriarty bellowed. 

“And yet, I am alive,” Sherlock played for time. “Come on. You know how it works. Lead the eye to the spots you want to be seen, add enough make-up and some special effects. Unfortunately I realized too late that your suicide was a trick, too, and let myself be deceived. Sentiment clouded my vision. Haven't you seen the crucial points in my 'magic trick' yet?” Sherlock stepped off the ledge onto the roof, forcing Moriarty one step back. 

‘It was brilliant, and I could do it again,” Sherlock boasted. “You would make the same mistake again and you would overlook the most important details. Therefore, I would survive the jump -,“ Sherlock paused for effect and lead toward him, “- again.”

“No, no, no. You wouldn’t.” Moriarty was breathing faster, his eyes jumping around the ledge, looking for hidden devices, anything that could help him to see how Sherlock had survived the fall. The gun trembled in his hands due to suppressed fury. “Tell me! What did I miss?” he yelled. His hands made a wide gesture toward the ledge. The gun was no longer aiming at Sherlock. 

Molly had been waiting for that. She stepped out of the shadows, taser raised and ready. The moment Moriarty acknowledged her she had found her aim and pulled the trigger. 

Shocked, Moriarty crumbled to the ground. Sherlock took a step back to avoid Moriarty grabbing him. He smiled at Molly and looked back at the twitching Moriarty on the ground. He was still conscious, but unable to move. The gun had tumbled from his hands and now lay beside him. Sherlock kicked it further away. 

“Well,” Sherlock said, and pulled some handcuffs from the pockets of his coat with a flourish, “my magic trick includes friends and people that we overlook way too often. Homeless people, women like Molly, Anthea or Irene; add to that friends, lovers, brothers.” Sherlock had one knee at the back of Moriarty and tightened the cuffs. The skin on Moriarty’s hands was squeezed painfully within their confines. Molly stood beside him and grinned stupidly. 

Seconds later, a loud bang from the roof entrance startled them. Six officers in full armor stormed in and surrounded them. One of them stepped closer and took in the scene. He grabbed his radio set. “Stand down, situation is under control,” he roared into the mouthpiece. He went to Sherlock and gestured him to step away from Moriary. The officer grabbed Moriarty at his neck and pulled him up. A bag was pulled over his head. At gun point, Moriarty was dragged by five officers from the roof down the stairs. The leader remained, giving and receiving orders to and from his head piece. 

Meanwhile Sherlock had pulled out his mobile and frantically dialled John's number. Only the voicemail answered. After that he tried to call Greg Lestrade, but came up with the same result. Molly had watched him, sensing his desperation. She tried to gain his attention. “Sherlock,” Molly said shy. Sherlock didn’t react. She tried it again more resolutely, catching his arm. 

Sherlock’s gaze fixed on her. “Molly, we have to find John, and Greg. He said -”

“I heard what he said,” Molly interrupted him. “Call Sally. She is able to help you.”

“Who?” Sherlock asked confused.

“Sally Donovan from NSY,” Molly clarified.

“Donovan?” he asked again.

“Yes,” Molly shrugged. “I saw how John got abducted. I followed him and called Sally in. She sent some police officers to retrieve him.”

Sherlock stared at her for some seconds. He shook himself and his eyes lost his focus for a moment trying to remember Sally’s number. After a few seconds, he nodded and punched the number into his mobile. He had a connection and it started ringing. Sherlock fidgeted while waiting. His breaths came fast and forced. 

After the fourth ring, which seemed like an eternity, the call was taken. “Donovan here,” Sally's voice greeted him. She seemed out of breath. 

“Sherlock speaking. Do you have John?” he asked.

“Yes, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson as well,” Sally confirmed. “Greg and John are on their way to a hospital. Mrs. Hudson is fine.”

“What happened?” Sherlock asked. He desperately wanted to know, what had happened.

“Moriarty and one of his helpers tried to drown them in one of the reservoirs of the embankments. Thankfully it was quite obvious where they were. It was the only reservoir with open flood gates and the guy guarding it was quite the tip-off. John and Greg were already drenched quite thoroughly and will probably suffer a slight hypothermia. They tried to keep Mrs. Hudson dry on their shoulders. We got them out just in time,” Sally explained. 

Sherlock swayed and slumped down on his knees. Molly stepped closer to catch his fall. Everything was okay. They had won. The game was finally over. 

Both didn’t hear the police officer approaching and startled as he addressed Sherlock. “Sir, I just got the order from Mr Holmes, to take you to the Trinity Hospital. Someone is waiting there for you.”

Sherlock looked up at him and took a deep breath. He nodded. Molly could see the exhaustion on Sherlock’s face. His whole body was trembling. She grabbed his arm and pulled him up. “Come on Sherlock. Let's visit John and Greg.” She smiled and accompanied him to the stairs, arms slung around his waist for support. Sherlock leaned on her to steady his gait. 

After a short trip in a police car, they reunited at the Trinity Hospital. Martha Hudson was in the waiting room with Sally. She had tears in her eyes, when she saw Sherlock entering. She had known he was alive, since John had sent her a message, but it was different to see it with her own eyes. She hugged him close for a long time. Sherlock let her and hugged her back. 

Sally informed him, that Greg and John were still in the examination room. They had to wait for news, because only family was allowed. Molly did her best to get some information and tried to keep Sherlock from threatening the nurse at the reception desk. Sally and Mrs. Hudson started to discuss the recent events and tried to keep him distracted. Telling him not to worry only made him more hostile. 

Greg and John emerged from the examination room 20 minutes later. Both were dressed in scrubs. Their wet clothes were stowed in some bags. They had been checked and the release papers were ready to sign. The water had been freezing cold and they had been submerged longer than sound, but both were healthy adults with more than average muscle mass and had withstood the cold better than expected. They were ordered to keep warm for the rest of the day and ingest some hot beverages and food. Some paracetamol was prescribed to ward off any inflammation.

John and Sherlock greeted each other with a hug. Greg just grinned and asked Molly and Sally for details about Moriarty. Everybody seemed to be talking at once. 

Sherlock however was speechless that everything had turned out well in the end. Mrs Hudson was unharmed, so were Greg and John. He wanted to thank Molly and Sally for their help, but he couldn't find the words. In the end, he shook hands with Sally and hugged Molly. He struggled to keep his composure. 

Mycroft joined them some minutes later. His basic surveillance of the police radio channels for the name 'Moriarty' had directed Molly’s call from the cab to his team. He had set up a police squad as fast as possible. He had just been signed an order to confine Moriarty in a safe location. Then he had hurried to the hospital, too. 

In the meantime, afternoon had turned into evening. Sally said her goodbyes first and went back to the office. The Moriarty business had created a lot of paperwork. Mycroft packed everyone else into his car. The first stop was at Baker Street. Mrs Hudson, Sherlock and John were glad to be home again. Molly’s apartment was the next stop. She was looking forward to a nice and relaxed evening. She conveniently forgot the taser in Mycroft’s car. Greg just took up Mycroft’s offer again and tagged along to his guest room in Mycroft's mansion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done :-)  
> The last chapter will be split up in three smaller ones, but I will post them all at once next time.


	14. How charged with punishments the scroll

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I split the last chapter into three short ones. Therefore the whole story will have 16 chapters.

Upon entering 221B Baker Street John and Sherlock wished Mrs Hudson a good night. She was ecstatic to be back. It had been a nice change to stay at the countryside, but she had missed her home. The men climbed up the stairs and entered the apartment. 

“Sherlock,” John asked. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock nodded solemnly. John pulled him into an embrace. “It's over. We are safe.”

John wrinkled his nose. “I need a shower. I smell like old fish.” He scratched at his beard. “And I need to get rid of that. It's starting to get scratchy. When I’m done, how about some take-away?”

“Sure. I'll order some,” Sherlock said. “Thai?”

“Sounds good. Get me something spicy.” John smiled and vanished in the bathroom. Sherlock just stood in the living room, listening to the sounds of John shaving. The low hums of an unknown pop song were carried to him. It was so domestic, that Sherlock needed some time to get his bearings. He felt unhinged and out of place.

After countless minutes he heard the shower water starting to warm up the water. Sherlock unfroze, pulled out his phone, dialled their favourite Thai-restaurant and placed an order. It would be delivered within the hour. 

Sherlock heard John climbing into the shower. He had started to whistle. Sherlock shed his coat in a mechanical movement and hung it behind the door. John's whistling turned into a bad Elvis performance and the lyrics of ‘All Shook Up’ carried into the living room.

Sherlock suddenly felt dizzy. His vision began to swim. He touched his cheeks. They were wet. More tears streamed down his cheeks. He stumbled to the sofa and sat down heavily. The tears wouldn't stop. Sherlock couldn’t understand. He took some deep heaving breaths. There were no reasons for tears. 

Everything had happened so fast. He just had left the hairdresser, when he got a message from Greg to meet at St. Bart’s. First he had been concerned, when Greg was no longer responding to his replies, but soon he had realized, that he had been baited by Moriarty. He even hadn't even found the time to text Mycroft, but thankfully Molly had appeared. Now he was back at Baker Street. Moriarty was beaten. He survived being captured and tortured and escaped mostly unharmed. His friends were alive. John was alive. John cared for him. He was for a lack of a better word his boyfriend. Everything was fine. Why was he crying? Some part of him knew that high-stress situations could lead to a mental break down. But he had always assumed to be above that. 

He let his head drop to his knees and buried his eyes into the crook of his elbows. Sobs escaped him. 

John had finished his shower and pulled on his bathrobe. He re-entered the living room and stopped as soon as he spotted Sherlock on the sofa. He quickly strode toward him and lowered himself beside him. He put his arm gently around Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Sherlock?” he whispered. “Talk to me. Are you hurt?” 

Sherlock shook his head, his face still buried in his elbow. 

“Can I help? What do you need?” John asked. His voice sounded worried and made Sherlock feel even rawer. Sherlock started to shake more, inconsolable. John embraced him tighter. 

“I-I'm sorry,” Sherlock sniffled after some moments. “I don't know, I just, I – I ...” Sherlock looked up miserably. 

John shuffled back onto the sofa and Sherlock was pulled along to lie down with him. Sherlock went along willingly. His head got tucked under John’s chin and the arms hugged him closer. 

“It's over, we made it, it’s okay; I know how you feel...” While John whispered reassurances into Sherlock’s ear, he stroked his now again black hair and drew small circles on his back. Sherlock calmed, only sniffling slightly sometimes. John kept up talking. “You'll be okay. I wondered about you in Ostrava. I expected that all this would be too much. I'm happy, that I can be here now for you. I don’t mind you being sad, I had expected a tantrum or some wall shooting –“ John chuckled a little bit at the memories, but continued with his soft caresses. 

After almost an hour on the sofa, Sherlock had calmed down and was dozing on John's shoulder. The doorbell rang and Sherlock startled awake. “That's the food,” he said and clambered up. He felt slightly ashamed and avoided looking John in the eyes. 

John held him back. “Sherlock, all is fine. No need to hide. Okay?” 

Sherlock met his eyes after a few heartbeats and nodded. 

John smiled at him. “Freshen up a little bit. I'll get the food,” he ordered and Sherlock just nodded. 

The meal was delicious. They were both starved and inhaled everything to the last crumb in a comfortable silence. The rustling of the paper boxes and the clicking of the forks on the plates were the only sounds. The whole time Sherlock threw shy glances at John. 

“What is going through that brilliant brain of yours?” John asked teasingly after they finished their meal. The paper containers and plates were stacked haphazardly on the coffee table. 

Sherlock blushed. He hesitated for a few seconds. “Will you take me to bed?”

John smiled. “Of course. I had no intention of sleeping alone tonight.”

“I mean, could we -” Sherlock halted. 

John's eyes widened in understanding. “Oh. Sure. Yeah.” He stood up and held out his hand for Sherlock to take. John led him to the Sherlock's bedroom. There he stopped unsure.

“Is your room okay?” John asked. 

Sherlock nodded. John opened the door and stepped inside with Sherlock in tow. John let go of his hand and picked up Sherlock's dressing gown which was draped over the bed to put it on the chair in the corner. Sherlock waited unsure at the doorway watching John tidying up the bed and pushing the duvet away. Sherlock stepped closer and pulled John in for a kiss. He melted into John and his caresses. 

After some slow and sensuous kisses, John started to undress Sherlock who helped him. He felt restricted in his suit and stripped till he was naked. John still wore his bathrobe, but the fabric felt so soft, that Sherlock didn't mind. Sensuously they rubbed against each other basking in each others warmth. John softly pushed him onto the bed and Sherlock willingly let himself fall. John chucked his bathrobe to the floor and joined Sherlock. 

The kisses became more heated. Sherlock felt desperate. It wasn't enough. John pulled back. A small whimper escaped Sherlock's lips. 

“Sherlock, easy. We have all the time in the world,” John tried to soothe him.

“No John, I need to feel you. It's not enough, please.” Sherlock chased for further kisses, trying to pull John on top of him. John planted some light kisses on Sherlock's face to soothe him. 

“Shh, you will have me. I'll take care of you. I promise.” John made Sherlock settle back into the cushions. He turned toward the drawer of the bedside table. Unsurprisingly there were a bottle of lube and some condoms stashed. Again proof that privacy with Mycroft was an illusion. He threw his findings on the bed sheet and his eyes focussed again on Sherlock. 

Sherlock was hot and restless. He needed John to speed up. But John slowed him down and reassured him: slow caresses along his body with his hands and mouth, hot and wet kisses on lips, neck, torso and finally his member. Sherlock knew that John had never anal sex before, except the one time with Sherlock some days ago, but he also trusted John to know enough how to proceed.

Sherlock appreciated, that John took his time and placed his partner's needs before his own. When Sherlock felt John entering him, all the puzzle pieces in his life suddenly fit. He saw John towering above him, aroused, steady and confident. Sherlock lost himself in a wave of pleasure. John's cock and hand kept him trapped between two overwhelming sensations. John readjusted his posture to plant short kisses on Sherlock's lip while thrusting into him. After a few more forceful strokes Sherlock moaned and came. Sherlock's eyes fell closed, but he heard John's breath speeding up till John shuddered and fell on top of him. As soon as Sherlock felt his strength return, he hugged John to him. They stayed like that for some minutes, till John's breath evened out and he rolled off him and dropped beside Sherlock on the bed. He caught Sherlock's hand and planted a kiss on his fingers. He was grinning like mad. 

Sherlock caught his eyes and smiled sated. He felt centered again. All was well.


	15. I am the master of my fate:

**One week later...**

The press release of Sherlock's survival was, as expected, a sensation. Therefore they were the headline of every newspaper for three days. The paparazzi camped outside of Baker Street day and night. Greg had visited them once to return John's leather jacket, but he got almost torn to pieces so he swore not to stop by as long as the mob was out there. Thankfully, three days later one of the younger royals had gotten caught stupidly drunk on a party and had taken the spotlight away. News was only good when fresh. 

However John couldn't avoid reality anymore. The bills stacked on the mantel piece of the hearth. He needed to pay them. He couldn't afford any late fees. 

With dread, he powered up his laptop and opened the online banking app. 

Sherlock still had no bank account. It seemed that reopening an account after death because of 'suddenly being alive again' was no standard procedure and therefore needed time. It didn't seem to bother him, because currently he was lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. He was moping, because John had refused to go out for lunch. 

At the moment it was up to John to pay for everything. So far, he had used up all his cash and probably the complete allowance of his credit card for groceries. 

If he was lucky, the clinic had already wired his last earnings to his account. Best case: he was just broke. Worst case: he had debts with horrendous interest rates. 

Talking to Sherlock about money was always a lost cause. Of course, he could ask Mycroft for a small loan. But his pride forbade it. He had already thought about cutting costs. Not taking Sherlock out for lunch was one step. John only had five pounds of cash left. Expensive food was definitely out of the question. 

He took a deep breath and logged into his account. He stared at his balance. He blinked. He checked his account number in the corner. Everything was in order, except - 

“Sherlock?” John asked. 

Only a short sound of acknowledgement came from the direction of the sofa.

“Do you by chance know anything about the roughly two million pounds in my bank account?”

A positive hum was his answer. 

“Care to enlighten me?” John asked, his gaze still glued to the monitor.. 

Sherlock drew in a bored breath. “It could be the bounty on Moran's head; or the thank you from some Arab Sheiks for solving their family problem; or the payment from Mycroft for retrieving me. Who cares? Just Mycroft's meddling.” He turned on the sofa to stare at its back pillows. 

John was speechless. He had never dared to think, that the stunts he had pulled in the last weeks could somehow have a positive impact on his dire financial situation. But it seemed that in doing what needed to be done he had made a fortune. It wasn't all legal, but it had been profitable. 

“I am a millionaire,” John grinned stupidly. He closed the laptop. The bills could wait one more day. “Let's go out, have something to eat. Angelo's?”

Sherlock sat up. “You declined lunch, because you thought you were broke?” 

“Well, in general you need money in exchange for goods and services,” John explained.

“We never pay at Angelo's,” Sherlock said, throwing himself back onto the sofa. 

“But we could, if we wanted to, Sherlock. That’s how it is usually done.”

“Angelo would never take our money,” Sherlock mumbled into the pillows.

After some coaxing from John, Sherlock dressed and was willing to go out. Sherlock grabbed his coat, and handed over John’s leather jacket. John had gotten so used to it by now, that he didn’t have the heart to bin it. It was his trophy over Moriarty. With their usual bickering they bounded down the stairs.

Later on they stopped by NSY. Greg had gotten a promotion and had replaced the old Superintendent. His workload had doubled overnight. It would take months to wrap up all the open investigations, but they somehow ran smoother. It seemed Moriarty’s men had deliberately used their positions to slow down police work in the past. 

When they arrived at NSY, Greg was standing in the office kitchen at the coffee maker with Dimmock and Anderson and he waved them over. Dimmock had been able to solve his case in Brighton and had returned last week. With the old Superintendent gone, he hadn’t been able to report his findings so far and couldn’t officially close the case. Greg tried to squeeze short briefings like these during his coffee break and had reassigned Dimmock to a new case.

Greg then told of his success with solving the murder of Nick Henley, the case that had led him to the last month's adventure. Mycroft had told him about Sherlock’s deductions and he had followed up on those. Nick’s boyfriend had come in for a short statement, but Greg let him go without further questions. He deliberately let the trace for the murderer of the sniper go cold. He had no interest in solving that part of the case. In the official files the man would stay an unnamed homeless person with an unknown killer. In fact, they should even thank Nick’s boyfriend, because the act of revenge had made it possible for Lestrade to escape Moriarty’s surveillance and start the chain of events that led to the downfall of Moriarty. This was no news to him, so Sherlock only listened with half an ear. 

Yesterday, unbeknownst to John and Lestrade, Sherlock had visited Nick’s boyfriend. Mycroft had been his usual meddling self and procured a grant from a small foundation that supported young musicians. It wouldn’t replace Nick, but it could help him to find his purpose in life and overcome his grief. Again, Sherlock had to admit, that Mycroft was good to have around.

Greg told Sherlock about Nick and how he had visited his parents. Greg was telling how the parents still denied that their son had been gay. 

Meanwhile John awkwardly entertained Anderson and Dimmock. Anderson was mostly bemoaning the workload, because some of his colleagues were still suspended, and Dimmock complimented John's vintage leather jacket. He was a biker and loved the old style. After that, their discussion fell flat and they caught the last part of Greg’s report about Nick's homophobic parents. John patted Sherlock’s back affectionately. Sherlock had stiffened a little bit. John knew better now: Sherlock wasn’t alarmed by sex. He was just cautious of the reactions of people with regards to sex. Sherlock never liked people that made fun of minorities. And being gay still set him apart from others. 

Anderson huffed. “Being gay is just a hipster statement. I bet you that in some years, the so called gays will go back to banging women.” His eyes disparagingly fixed on John’s hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

Greg’s eyes turned cold and he stiffened. He knew Anderson often said things carelessly, but those remarks and the subsequent comments of his colleagues had come back to haunt him after Sherlock had jumped. He knew they could hurt. 

Greg straightened up and went to the middle of the office space. Most of his people were present. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced loudly. People stopped in the middle of their tasks and heads turned toward him. Greg felt a sense of power. The new position as Superintendent surely gained him some more respect. 

“Listen everyone,” he began. “There is a code of conduct at the NSY. From this day on, I expect from everybody to adhere to it. That means no jokes about race, gender, sex, or looks. I know that the old Superintendent didn't care about that. But from now on, I will insist on it. If there is a violation I will gladly send you to a sensitivity training. If you still have trouble after that, you will get a warning. Understood?”

People stared at him. The whole speech was somewhat unprompted, but the last days had been not business as usual anyway. After some seconds, they started to whisper to each other and returned to their work. 

Greg just nodded and returned to Anderson. “Consider yourself warned,” he said. 

Anderson just stared at him. After some seconds, he huffed and strode back to his desk. 

Dimmock just smirked. “Well, Anderson was never the best with words.”

Greg just nodded. “Well, he usually works with the dead, no tact is needed there.”

Dimmock just nodded, grabbed his coffee and went back to his desk. 

Sherlock and John had no business left either. They congratulated Greg on his promotion, assured him, that he earned it and said their goodbyes. On the way to the elevator John spoke up. 

“After all the stress in the last weeks, how about some nice dinner? There is this new posh vintage restaurant...” 

Sherlock came to a sudden stop. John needed a few seconds to realise that Sherlock was no longer with him. He turned around. Sherlock stood in the middle of the hallway, thinking hard. After a few seconds, his eyes focussed again. “John, you're brilliant,” he exclaimed. Sherlock turned around and went back to Dimmock. He stopped at the front of his desk and smirked down at him. “It’s you!” he said. 

Dimmock looked up from his desk. His face fell in understanding. In a second he turned in his office chair, jumped up and sprinted for the fire exit. 

Before he could reach it, he was tackled to the ground by John. 

Greg had watched everything from across the room. “What’s going on here?” he bellowed and made his way to them. 

Sherlock smirked at John, who tried to keep a struggling Dimmock down. 

“Lestrade, you had worried about Moriarty's surveillance. We are no longer bugged. Dimmock was the one who reported our steps to Moriarty. He knew about Mrs. Hudson’s retrieval, the date when John and I went back to Baker Street and he had you in constant view. But he hadn’t reported on your dead sniper. Why? He was in Brighton at that time. I know, that is all circumstantial, but if you look through his things, you probably find more to incriminate him. It’s the only solution, that makes sense,” Sherlock concluded. 

John looked up at Sherlock. “Brilliant. How did you come up with that?”

Sherlock grinned. “Somehow, too many people were talking too much about vintage leather jackets, and I don’t believe in coincidences. Also Dimmock's work schedule and his access to information concerning us is highly suggestive. It is the only possible explanation, why Moriarty had knew what he did.”

Lestrade just rolled his eyes and pulled out his handcuffs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, who would have thought that. Dimmock was one of the bad guys...


	16. I am the captain of my soul.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter - yay :-)  
> I corrected some minor mistakes.

One month later on a lovely spring day, Sherlock realized that they had only used John’s bedroom upstairs as storage space for clothing. The master bedroom, formerly Sherlock’s room, was now their room. The lazy Sunday afternoon was ideal to shuffle wardrobes and clothes and to move John's stuff to the master bedroom.

They agreed that the important things would have to be moved downstairs, and the lesser used clothing including disguises would be stowed upstairs. Also the desk would also stay upstairs, in case one of them needed a quiet working space. John’s bed stayed, too, in case they ever had guests overnight. The bedside table, however, would make a nice addition to the master bedroom. John was currently shuffling a chair away from the bed, to gain some space for the small furniture. 

Sherlock went back upstairs and grabbed the bedside table with verve. The drawer, which had always been quite loose, slid out, and its content clattered to the floor. Amidst pens, buttons and some change John's gun case landed with a dull thump on Sherlock’s toe. Sherlock suppressed a pained yelp and watched how a letter fluttered open and glided to its resting place in front of him.

The writing was familiar. He crouched down, hurting toe forgotten, and picked up the letter. 

'To whom it may concern, 

This is my note – to say goodbye. I never realized how empty a life can be. I lost something precious, and I am done losing. 

I'm sorry, 

John Watson'

 

Sherlock inhaled sharply and froze.

John was mounting the stairs. He stilled at the door.

Sherlock turned his gaze toward John. “Tell me,” Sherlock demanded holding the paper up. 

Johns gaze landed on the paper and he took a deep breath. With caution he approached Sherlock and plucked the letter from his hands. 

“It's no longer relevant,” John said. “I was at a dark place. That's over now.”

Sherlock blinked, swallowing a lump. “When?”

“I think I wrote it two weeks after New Year.” Sherlock processed the information. He was luckier, than he had imagined. Everything could have gone wrong. A few days later, he had lost his will to live, too. 

“What stopped you?” Sherlock asked. 

“I was a coward,” John said solemnly and shrugged. “I just couldn’t pull the trigger.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, John. You are brave.” Sherlock knelt in front of John. “Thank you that for still being with me. That you gave me this chance to meet you again.” He pressed a short kiss on John's forehead. 

John's eyes watered. “I had given up. I thought I had lost everything.”

Sherlock looked into his eyes. He nodded. “I know.” The time in the cell, shortly after Musgrave had given the killing order came back to him full force. “And I'm glad, that we are here now. I love you John, and I am deeply thankful, that I can say that. To you, in person,”

John swallowed down the lump in his throat. He smiled shakily “I love you, too.”

They were some lucky bastards. Life was colourful again. 

Ende

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Puh – long ride. Hope you liked it. I am done. RL is currently ... dense. So if i find the time, I might revise some of the story, but I wanted it finished. 
> 
> And of course Sherlock had to find the note...
> 
> I read about the concept of “Chekov’s gun” and I tried to go along with that. When I introduced something, I tried to use it for the story. I hope, I left no loose ends. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
